


The Last Promise

by Hero_of_Denerim



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Here Lies the Abyss, NaNoWriMo, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-08-28 15:50:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8452363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hero_of_Denerim/pseuds/Hero_of_Denerim
Summary: What if Hawke's Warden contact was neither Alistair, nor Loghain, nor Stroud, but family? My take on how the story might have progressed if the Hero of Ferelden had been the Warden to accompany the Inquisitor into the Fade.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first multi-chapter project, and what better way to try out a longer story arch then during NaNoWriMo? So I'm fairly excited!  
> I have prepared the majority of the other chapters enough to be 67% confident I might finish this story during November, but then again I really really hate editing so I fear I can't really promise anything. But I will try!
> 
> This piece will obviously contain spoilers for the DA:I "Here Lies the Abyss" questline. I will update the tags wit heach chapter, to not spoil too much of it ;) If I at any point forget to tag something that makes you uncomfortable etc., feel free to point it out (politely would be nice), and I will change it asap.
> 
> As always, kudos and kind comments are always appreciated; if you don't want to miss a chapter, feel free to bookmark this work, you know the drill ;)  
> And, of course, I hope you enjoy it :)

She slowly ground her sword with her sharpening stone; over and over in a natural, almost fluent motion, testify of an old habit. She focused on all the dents in the blade, remains of long and tedious battles she fought over the years; she listened how the metallic scraping sound hitched slightly when she moved the stone over a notch. After all this time, she still knew the origin of all flaws marring the once smooth surface; like the long scar running across the bottom half was caused by grazing the shield of a genlock during a trip to the Deep Roads; or the crescent-shaped dent on the flat side from the first time she fought a High Dragon.

Her sword has aided her since the Blight. Alistair had dubbed it Matchmaker after they returned to camp, grinning sheepishly, because he had kissed her for the first time that night. She had laughed and protested, _a sword needed a powerful name to instil fear in her enemies, or at least a poetically sounding one like Starfang, or so the many books in the tower library would attest_ , but the name stuck easily enough, and their companions had teased them affectionately for it.

She winced at the sudden memory and tried to steer her attention back to sharpening her weapon. It had been too long to still be dwelling on the past, at least that was what she was trying to convince herself to believe. She knew that she should not let herself become distracted, not now, for she was aware of the dangers lurking just beyond her sight, concealed in the shadows outside of the cave she was hiding, _they must not find her, not now, not when she was so close to finding anything, so close to finishing a mission and not failing it,_ and inside her own mind.

Her thoughts, however, turned back to the Blight, back when they travelled together to rally people to their cause. Alistair had been surprised when she asked him to teach her to fight. Hesitant, even. She could read the worry for her in the ways his eyes twitched, and his lips tightened all so slightly, but she noticed. Nonetheless he would overplay his concern with his warm smile she loved so much, and relented, as he always did, _your desire is my command, he had said with this little twinkle in his eye that made her heart beat faster and her legs weak and her head dizzy_. Mages did not learn fighting in the circles, even less so with a sword but she should be able to defend herself. Especially when her connection to the Fade was exhausted during a battle.

He had taught her how to handle Matchmaker, simple and short units at first, so she could learn the ways of her new blade. Every evening, he showed her new step sequences she needed to practice, and new sword techniques which would go along. They practiced until her legs got sore and her arms grew tired. When she had worked through those, he showed her more complex moves. She progressed quickly to her own astonishment, as she had been trained as a healer during her apprenticeship. Soon she could prove her skills in battles, _he always was so worried to see her in the heat of a fight but she also saw him swelling in pride because_ he _has helped her, she has trusted_ him _to teach her, and he would always check on her afterwards and pull her into a hug and whisper into her ear how lucky he was when it was her who was grateful._ She had discarded her old staff subsequently for good.

After each sparring session, they found themselves a spot close to the fire to sit down side by side and tend to their weapons. He had shown her how to move the grinding stone to keep the blade sharp effortlessly, and how she could remove crusted blood and grime. He had insisted to teach her how to care for a sword, even when she was exhausted from travel and sparring practice. She had objected at first, questioning the necessity of the procedure. _Her staff had not needed that amount of care, and how could a sword demand more than her magic would,_ she had argued. He had told her then that thorough care for steel was crucial. He had told her that _keeping it sharp meant keeping her safe_. He had smiled and leaned over to her, gently pressing a kiss to her brow. She had smiled back, and they had continued their task.

She came to enjoy this part of the day over time. It became more than a chore she needed to take care of. She could spend time with him, mostly undisturbed from thoughts about their mission. This small ritual helped her to calm down from the horrors she had to witness and the existential decisions she was forced to make, and allowed her to gather strength for the upcoming day.

So, she would sit down each evening after setting up camp and she would examine Matchmaker, as if she would see it for the first time. She still marvelled at the finely crafted silverite blade, and the thick, plain bronto leather she had wrapped around the sturdy hilt long ago, which made the sword feel so natural in her hand. And she could still feel the magic worked into the blade, responsive to her every touch and hers alone.

Even though she sat down without him, as she had done for the last years. Even though she would never see his strong hands working his own gear, his mouth tugging up into his appreciative smile, his eyes expressing his feelings more clearly than any word might do; she would never see _him_ again. And still, using the techniques he had taught her so long ago, she had found refuge from her thoughts, her guilt, her shame, _she should have stopped him, she should have told him to turn, command him to; he had always asked her to lead but the one time she wanted him to follow, needed him to, he would not and now he was gone and it was her fault_. The metallic rasp would soothe her, keep her sane and levelled, or so she would tell herself.

Though she did not cry, as she had not for years, _and it was not for a lack of trying because she had, desperately, every day since Fort Drakon but she only felt numb and cold and exhausted and then she was declared a hero while she has let him die and now she could not even mourn him,_ so she would stubbornly keep tending to Matchmaker as he had shown her to drown out everything she has contained and repressed for so long.

But now it was different. She struggled to focus on her sword, to tune out the song in her head that had become more alluring with each passing day. When it began a couple of months ago, it only tugged at the edges of her mind, hard to grasp but unmistakably _there_. And then it grew louder and seeped through her mind, through her bones, through her _being_ , filling her with its wonderful melodies which she rather felt than heard, with every fibre of her body tempting her to follow, promising her everything she desired and more if she _only obeyed_.

But she could not give in, _would not_ give in, at least not now. She felt for the piece of parchment, safely tucked away behind her belt. One last mission, she would tell herself, as she resumed her task, forcefully blending out the music. One promise she needed to keep after having broken too many, and she would finally join him.


	2. The Inquisitor

Everything was wet. The steady rain leaked through her armour, despite the many enchantments embedded into the plates; her feet loudly squashed water out of her boots every time she urged on her trusty dracolisk, only to be soaked through again shortly afterwards; her braid was plastered uncomfortably against her skin in more loose strands than she liked; and she was convinced her vitaar was now smeared across her face, probably mixed with the wine red colour of spindleweeds she used to dye her hair with. Raindrops dripped down from the plated ends of her backwards curved horns, from her nose, from her fingertips, and from the heavy maul she had slung across her back.

She despised Crestwood. They had only recently arrived, to meet Hawke’s contact from the Warden ranks, and she hated all of it already. She had dealt with Haven’s snow and ice, and she could _and would_ deal with the crisp, cool winds whistling through the ruin of the fortress they had claimed as theirs. But this rain?

Herah shook her head, and sent more drops flying to the sides. This made her miss her old company even more. _Bunch of idiots, all of them, but they had fought together and had shared their meals, and they had been the closest thing to family she had after her parents were killed in Kirkwall’s aftermath because of course the Free Marches would agree with Kirkwall in this of all things_. They had had different jobs, sure, and she knew her current role was more vital than any of those ever have been, but they had never ventured south of the Waking Sea, and that had its arguments, especially now. Warm, even climate, lounging in the sun on off days… She _really_ missed that _but was not sure if it was the sun or the off days now._

Her companions did not fare much better. Varric had been muttering to himself since they had left Skyhold, and she was certain he only volunteered to join her on this trip because Hawke was there, too; the Iron Bull had not made a single bawdy joke in days, _which concerned her more than she would admit to herself_ , and had hardly uttered a word since the last time they camped, or at least nothing that was no curse aimed at the weather or bandits patrolling the roads; even Madame de Fer, _Viv she always wanted to call her but the prospect of one of her lectures was scaring her so much more than Corypheus and his blighted dragon ever could_ , even she looked as miserable and drenched as someone with impeccable composure could.

They all were weary of the rain, and tired, and just wanted to get this over with. Another thing her new title remembered her of her old life, different as it may be. _It was just a job and it did not matter which side she was on unless the other paid better and old habits died very hard she learned._

Just question the Warden and get out of here, that was all she wanted to do. And to never, ever come back. As if it was so easy. _Even in a dripping wet place like this, those void forsaken rifts had opened, releasing demon hordes onto the lands, they met more undead than living people and even those were majorly hostile and she just needed a break._ But she knew, at one point, they had to return and help the people rebuilt and protect their hometown, and ward off the evil that lurked everywhere. Those thoughts did not help lightening her mood, though.

Josie had scheduled etiquette lessons for her, to prepare her for the upcoming ball in Halamshiral. Apparently, the Orlesians thought of Qunari as giant, mindless, violent animals, _not that she was overly surprised and not that they were inherently wrong, she had met some followers of the Qun giving her the creeps._ She herself checked two of those points. Josie was determined for her to make an outstanding appearance at court, _with honeyed words preferable over death threats and broken bones. Diplomacy was not her forte, but she could at least try, for Josie’s sake._

She really did not mind the lessons, though. Having spent too little time with her lovely ambassador was among the things she had cursed herself for, while almost succumbing to the snowy Frostbacks. Since she had survived the disaster from Haven, against all the odds that were stacked against her… She would even try to learn something in those lessons, if anything to please Josie. _Sweet, kind, oblivious Josie_.

The rain did not seem to care much for that, as it mercilessly poured down all the same, slipping through the creaks in her armour and soaking her under tunic. Neither did the dark, grim clouds, or the sky hiding behind. And she should not care either, at least not now. She squared her shoulders. There would be time after this.

“Look!”

Bull’s deep voice snapped her back to the present. _Right, no dawdling._ Her eyes followed his pointed arm, and saw the makeshift shack. The blinded skull, crest of the local smuggler group, was visible even through the thick rain.

“Finally! I have gathered enough rain in my boots to fill a bathtub,” Varric complained, though he seemed to have found his good humour again.

They spurred their mounts for the last bit of the way, the prospect to get somewhere dry lifted all of their spirits. A couple of wooden hooks were mounted into the cladding, so after dismounting they knotted the reins around those.

“I’m sorry, Dawn” Herah murmured against the scarlet-scaled head, as she petted her neck, “but we both know you deal better with rain than I ever could.” Her beast seemed unfazed, only cocking her head to lean into her touch. _She would commission a bucket’s worth of the finest treats for her from Dennet, even though he would complain that she was spoiling Dawn too much already._ When she turned around, she swore she heard her sneeze somewhat indignantly, _as stubborn as her rider, always needing to have the last word and that was why she loved her._

Only now she saw that what she thought to be a shack was nothing more than a few wooden planks knocked up to shelter the natural cave behind it. Hawke greeted them with a curt nod, once they were inside. Her piercing blue eyes and the grim line of her mouth told Herah all she needed to know. The Champion was as anxious as she was. Another reason to get that over with.

Her hopes for a dry hideout vanished quickly after they entered. The small cave entrance, that had been hastily covered long ago, opened up into a narrow, naturally curved corridor. Its stone walls were slick with wetness, and a sharp note of mildew filled the air; _why was she even surprised to find it just as wet inside as it was outside, with that constant rain dampening everything not sealed magically._

She followed the path, hunched so her horns would not even scrape the ceiling, _because there was no way she would touch that muck_ , and deliberately slowed her steps. The ground was as slippery as the walls, and she tried her best to keep her balance. Eventually, the cave opened up into a cavern, large enough to walk upright again. _Next time, those smugglers should find a nicer hideout or so help her…_ Even here, the walls were glistering in the torchlight. _Torchlight?_

As she realised that they were not alone, she already felt the tip of a blade pressed against her throat. Not enough to draw blood, _yet_ , but with a bit more pressure applied it might, _and her little adventure would be over sooner than she had imagined_.

“Stop right there.” A voice, cooler and sharper than the blade against her throat, emphasised the warning the sword had declared before. Herah looked down, careful to not move her head into the blade, and into the eyes of the person threatening her.

She was about two heads shorter, but her gaze was as fierce as that of a wounded, cornered wolf. Her dark brown hair was cut to chin-length, but it was streaked with silver, and its tangled strands had lost any shine they might have had once. Her thin skin was stretched tightly over her skull, her sunken cheeks aging her up immensely. An oversized, shapeless cloak of roughly spun grey wool hid everything from her neck downwards, and made it difficult to guess her overall state.

She had the haunted look of people who had seen too much death, and war. Her dark-blue eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles sagging under them. Despite her obvious exhaustion, _or because of that_ , she did not make another move, or spoke another word, but only waited for the intruders to react.

“It’s okay, coz, that’s Inquisitor Herah Adaar. I wrote about her, remember? In my letters? Please, could you put down that sword now?”

In one, fluent motion she lowered the sword and opened her cloak to sheathe it at her hip. Faded blue linen and shimmering silverite, the armour of the Wardens, were briefly visible.

“I am Warden Solona,” she introduced herself with a nod. For a bit, she seemed to hesitate, contemplating whether to add something, but decided against it. She only stoically returned Herah’s gaze. Though she had relaxed a little, some remains of her initial tensions were imprinted in her expression.

It took a moment before Herah could gather a clear thought. “You are _her_? You are the Hero of Ferelden?” Everyone had heard the tales of the Fifth Blight, even up in the Free Marches. And she had fought with Wardens who had defected their order for mercenary work. Though they were not the chattiest people she had worked with, they were some of the most formidable fighters she had the pleasure of fighting with; and even those grisly, veteran warriors were starstruck by the mention of the Hero alone.

“Yes.” Her voice had lost most of its strength, now sounding toneless, deflated. The Warden slightly angled her head towards her, and her face was illuminated by the torches on the walls. Herah could see a fine web of dark… veins, _maybe, hopefully only veins_ , through the paper-like skin.

“I see that many tales are mere rumours, then. I even heard some claim you were a mage.” _How could a mage slay an Archdemon, anyway?_

The Hero brought her right hand forwards, without a change in her calm expression, and opened up her palm upwards. With a flick of her wrist, purple sparks of electricity danced briefly around her fingers.

“I am.”

Herah was rendered speechless, _she mostly wondered whether they tickled or if her hands were already numb but surely that was no question to ask the Hero was it_ , and the Warden continued, “The darkspawn don’t care if you have drained your mana, Inquisitor, and they most certainly don’t wait for one to replenish it. They attack either way. So I learned other ways to defend myself.” She shrugged, as if a sword-wielding mage was not extraordinary. For her, maybe it was not.

“Then you surpass everything I’ve heard about you, Hero.” Josie would be proud if she had heard her just now, _she might have asked for her to curtsey as well but she would only topple over and how would that look, really_ , though she noticed how the Warden winced at the title.

“Then people have become unimaginative of late. But,” she pursed her lips into a small frown, “we don’t have the luxury of time to talk about the Blight, not with Corypheus at the back of our minds. More or less literally.”

Prompted by Herah’s arched brow, she only shot a glance towards Hawke. “Let me explain. Grey Wardens join the ranks through a ritual, as old as the First Blight, in which they are… _exposed_ to the darkspawn taint. It is rather unpleasant, but thanks to that, we can sense darkspawn and, more importantly, we can kill an Archdemon for good. And that’s not even the darkest secret of the order- but I digress.

“Wardens, who had served for a long time, begin to… succumb to the taint’s corruption inside them. It’s called the ‘Calling’, and as of now, every single Warden in Orlais began to hear it recently. Naturally, the leaders are nervous upon this outbreak. With no Wardens, another Blight might wipe out every live on Thedas easily.

“I’ve spent the last years to find a cure for the Calling. During my travels, I learned about Corypheus and his effect on the Wardens, and I began to investigate him. This is how I _reconnected_ with my cousin.”

“Do you think he is linked to your quest?” Herah could not make much of the Hero’s monologue, other than that it was important to her. _If she could somewhat aid in their endeavour, why should they not help her in hers?_

“He has caused this false Calling, but everything beyond this fact is mere speculation at best. I had hoped, but… It would be too late for me, anyway.” The defeat that tinged her voice was shaking the image she had of the hero who had delivered them from the brink of extinction, and dimmed the respect she had for Wardens. How such a famed, powerful person could sound as weak as a nug, was beyond her, now it was more important than ever to show strength, _should heroes not be grand and glorious, awe inspiring not broken, and would she herself end up like this when everything was over? Would this ever be over?_

The Warden had averted her eyes, and turned towards the shabby desk next to her. She leaned on the corroded piece, and it made her look _so old and weak and pitiful._ Herah had wondered why Wardens chose to leave their order to work as swords-for-hire, but not anymore. The order only destroyed them, _just like the templars did to themselves and what was it just with humans desperately trying to destroy themselves?_

“Do you- do you hear the Calling?” The question spilled out of her before she could help herself, _and Josie would have shot her a warning glance but she needed to know, she deserved to know, did she not, if she was offered more danger than help_ and Solona nodded solemnly; if she was surprised at the bold question, she hid it well.

“Yes. It is ever-present, but when everything around me is quiet, and I can’t distract myself, it is louder, drowning out any thoughts of my own. But I understand it is false, and I can, _and will_ , withstand it, if that’s why you’re asking.”

“You didn’t tell me that, when you wrote me,” Hawke threw in. Whether she was emotional in general, or it were her impressive eyes that brought out more substance in whatever she said, Kirkwall’s champion looked hurt and sounded betrayed.

“I’m still a member of this order, cousin, and while I haven’t parted on best terms, I don’t want to break all my oaths,” the Warden answered softly.

“About that… We’ve met a group of Wardens on the lookout for you,” Herah said, before Hawke could escalate the conversation, _because while she knew little about her but that she always escalated things and now they were in this mess_.

“Warden-Commander Clarel had her own… plans to counter this mass Calling. Desperate plans, but not helpful either way. I voiced my concern, but she was already in too deep, and branded me a traitor to the order. Before she had me silenced completely, I chose to disappear for a while.” Her matter-of-fact tone brushed of Herah’s questions regarding the content of those plans, but it was enough for an unsettling feeling to nestle in her stomach. She understood why Hawke was not too keen on the Warden’s secrecy.

“And what would be your plan, Hero?”

Another wince, before she replied, “Before I left, I’ve heard rumours about some kind of ritual taking place in the Western Approach. I’d like to confirm them. From the few things I’ve gathered, you’d be as interested to stop it as I am.” She paused briefly. “They are still my brothers and sisters, after all.” The last part sounded like a fleeting afterthought. Maybe, it was.

Hawke cleared her throat, her hand still fiddling with the sheath of one of her daggers. “My cousin and I will investigate the ruins. I trust we’ll meet you there, Inquisitor.”


	3. The Champion

She suffered from nightmares every time they rested on their way to the Western Approach. Marian heard it in the pained outcries, hardly muffled by the thin fabric of their tents _why did she want to travel light anyway_ , and she saw it in the dark circles under her cousin’s eyes, which seemed to grow larger with each passing day.

The Inquisitor had made a stop at Skyhold, _briefly, she had promised, just to check in on the repairs and the most pressing reports herself because there was always something, and did they want to freshen up there too_ , but they declined in favour of their urgent business and had travelled alone. Now she almost regretted she had dismissed Adaar’s offer so hastily, _but they had to be quick and this could not wait so she could be back soon she missed him_.

The lack of sleep _and her own unbearableness that came with it and at this point she was not even sorry about it anymore_ had her suggest to take watches. _The closer they got the more dangers they might face and they should be alert at all times_ , or at least she told herself that. She knew that her cousin knew, though. Solona had accepted it all the same, however, even seemed thankful to avoid sleep.

If Marian had nightmares so bad she screamed like this, _she probably would be, too_. Not that she was a stranger to night’s terrors. After everything that happened in Kirkwall, she had only slept through after she and Fenris had gone into hiding, _for many believed without her the war between mages and templars would not have happened and how could those think her to be that important, really_.

Her cousin had no-one to share her pain with, or no-one she knew of. They had not talked about that, and even though they were related by blood, they were not necessarily what others would call close, _but who was close with their mage relatives anyway_? Somehow, she knew there was nothing to discuss, and she tried not to mention Fenris, _because she had, once, so casually she had not even realised as it was so natural to her, but there was this overwhelming sadness in her eyes she did not dare to ask just left to wonder how she could not be swallowed by it_.

There was more than that, or the nightmares, that had Marian at a distance, though. It was a mere feeling, firmly nestled into the back of her mind _where feelings should not be but it was so unmistakeably there_ and she could not quite pin it down.

Maybe, she was uneasy because Solona was a Warden, and a mage. The twins both lost to the Blight, _and the Wardens had not saved them, why have they not saved them_ , her mother to blood magic, and something about her cousin made her skin crawl enough so she would not inquire her favoured school of magic. There were no cuts on her hands, unlike Merrill who was covered in thin, pale scars so obviously, that only her friendship to Hawke had shielded her from most of the accusations of maleficarum. Merrill did not wear a wide cloak that covered most of her skin, however, and most certainly did not hide her face within the shadows of a hood from time to time.

No-one would dare to call Solona a blood mage, and she would definitely not start with that. The Hero of Ferelden, the Vanquisher of the Fifth Blight, and the train of titles that followed were either impressing or intimidating those who would think far enough. She would see soon enough if her suspicions would be confirmed. At one point or the other, she would have to fight with her and the Inquisitor, and then she would know.

 _Where was the Inquisitor, anyway_? Nervousness got the better of her, and she unhooked one of her daggers, turning its tip between her fingers. _She should not play with her weapons or they would not be good for anything but cutting butter Carver had teased her so she had messed his hair, but that did not help him when the ogre had hurled him into the mountainside, and now she was alive and he was dead._ With a sigh, she tugged at a loose leather strip at the hilt.

She was not sure what she should think of the Inquisitor. _Out of everyone who had been at this void forsaken Conclave, why did it have to be a Qunari to emerge from it_? But Varric seemed to trust her, and Adaar seemed to work hard enough to earn it. That would need to satisfy her for the time being.

All that was left to her was waiting. Why did she have to wait, _Varric knew she was impatient why did the Inquisitor not hurry_. She knew her cousin was as annoyed by this forced delay as she was, maybe more, but she only stood there, next to the entrance to the ruins, all stoic and quiet, and waited. _Her sister had died in her arms because of the Wardens and their stoic persistence to refuse Beth into their order._

It enraged her.

Eventually, she spotted the Inquisition party approach them. Sunlight reflected from Adaar’s plated horns, even before her plate mail caught it. Next to her, she felt Solona straighten herself; she had seen them, too. _At least she was not going mad in this blighted desert_.

She jumped up, barely keeping herself from storming towards them. Her nerves were poor as it were, and she knew she should not act too rashly _but sometimes it was just so damn hard and he was not here to calm her because sometimes he was the only one who could, but she left him behind as she could not bear to lose him, too_. So she restricted herself to stand next to her cousin.

Once they stood before her, she again realised just how tall Adaar was; she herself towered over most of her friends, _but Anders why was it always ‘but Anders’, and was he really her friend after all this_ , and the Inquisitor dwarfed her, even if she ignored the horns. Impressive, without a doubt, and threatening, _if she wanted to be_.

Lucky for her, Adaar did not, not now. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line, _had this woman smiled at least once in her life because looking at her now she could not believe that_. How Varric was so fascinated with her and praised her in his letters was beyond her understanding.

“Inquisitor, I’m glad you joined us,” Solona said, politely but toneless; only then Marian realised she had stared. Her mother had chided her for that when she was little _but in the end she stared down her mother’s killer, it did not bring her back but it helped_ , so she quickly swallowed the quip that lay bitter on her tongue, and nodded in greeting.

“Likewise. Can you give us details?”

Blunt, direct, fast. Merc talk. Adaar meant business. _She liked that in people._ In a world where more and more said anything but what they wanted to, this was refreshing. Right now, it seemed so odd to her, she barked out a laugh. When the others looked at her _except Solona of course there was nothing that could provoke a reaction from her was it_ , she quickly supplied them with what they had found out while they had been waiting. Wardens going crazy, all of that under the supervision of a ‘Vint mad with power, and she almost gagged at the _stench_ of blood magic that lingered in the air.

Nothing overly complicated, and the others understood quickly they had to act. The way both Qunari _she had not quite bothered to remember his name when they were introduced, only some kind of animal and she really thought it fit_ , sneered at her suspicion of the blood magic made them more sympathetic. _Something they could agree on_.

Adaar reached over her shoulder with a twitching hand, as if to reassure herself her double headed great axe still hung there, and strode towards the ruins. She carelessly waved her other hand in the air, and her companions followed. Marian slowly began to understand Varric’s fascination, _always on the lookout for his next story, and she would be excellent inspiration. A cheesy cover, a simple title, it practically wrote itself he had said before with his bellowing laugh._

She shot a glance towards her cousin, and prompted by her nod, they also walked up the steps towards the ritual site. When they joined the others, Adaar was already arguing with the ‘Vint who stood on a dais at the other side. Arrogant, and overconfident, all because of the magic that flowed through his veins. _Someone like him just had to turn to blood magic, she only knew one who might wield it but Merrill’s heart would be that innocent for only that long and one day the demons would get her, too._ He let the Wardens under his control dance like puppets _all the time with that sneer on his face so smug and self-righteous she wanted to slice it off._

Even at this display, her cousin stayed calm, though Marian swore she saw her grind her teeth. And when Adaar unhooked her weapon, she, too, reached for her own.

The party did not need much time to finish off demons and Wardens alike. Adaar’s technique of cleaving through her foes with ease was a thing of grotesque beauty, and inspiring in its destructive way, _and now she sounded like Varric, this was not her book or her story, she was glad to be in the background for once_. The other Qunari, _she really could not remember his name but then again, she did not care much for anyone here but Varric if she was honest_ , also swung his giant war hammer, leaving maimed bodies to his sides; both kept the enemies from fleeing the site, as they had realised their battle could not be won here. The mage lady stood at the fringes of the battlefield, and fired away her spells without breaking in sweat, or even appearing stressed; and Varric… He had not changed since their own time chasing criminals through Kirkwall’s alleyways, _how many had she got he had cried out and that she was buying that night if she did not improve, and it seemed so long ago and though she missed it she was tired of it and only wanted to go home_. She herself had cut a few throats, and then dived away from the demons with their claws and teeth to slice through their legs, _they might be strong but they were slow, too slow to catch her_.

In the middle of the fray was her cousin, and she cut through everything that came too close to her; wherever her sword hit the enemies, it seemed to drain away the life from the wound, before their now withered bodies dropped to the ground. Occasionally, lighting struck down foes lurking in her blind spots. Marian had heard of Wardens who could fight _and win_ with their eyes blindfolded, but seeing someone slaying three Wardens and their demons within the blink of an eye without taking a wound was impressive; frightening, _and maybe she should watch her mouth because she was good but was she that good_ , but impressive nonetheless.

As the last Warden dropped dead to the ground, Marian looked around. _Pity the ‘Vint did not stay_. Her gaze fell upon her cousin, her drawn blade covered in blood and grime, and she could make out sparks dancing around it.

“Since when was your order so fond of blood magic?” Her words came out more accusing than she intended to, but then again, she had every right to.

Solona shrugged, _was that all she thought about that, did she even care_. “Wardens will do what is necessary to stop a Blight, which does include magic like this if pressed. This, however, is a mere attempt of desperation. If all Wardens die, who will stop the next Blight? They need help, Marian, not more prejudice and hatred.”

Her easy dismissal made Marian furious. How could she, _how could anyone in their right mind_ , excuse blood magic? But she would not start a fight. Not now. A spiteful response had already found its way onto her tongue, and she forced it back down.

“We’ll talk about this later,” she said instead, _and she was almost proud because only three years ago she would have said that to a corpse_. “First, we’ll investigate the Warden fortress, to confirm the ‘Vints grand tales. Then we’ll meet you at Skyhold, Inquisitor, and decide the necessary steps.”


	4. The Arcanist

So, this was Skyhold.

She had read about it, many times in many places, but hardly more than fragments or footnotes. That she was standing here, inside the courtyard, was _exciting_.

It had been a long way up here; the Frostbacks were known for many things, _like harbouring most of the Avvar tribes in Thedas, or that their peaks never thawed, and did anyone on the surface know the dwarves back at home called them Frozen Teeth,_ but they were not especially famous among travellers. Little wonder to her, now that she had climbed them herself.

Not that she had anyone else to blame for that but herself. She just _had to_ walk all the way, because there was still so much she had not discovered yet. _Though in hindsight, she should have asked for hardier boots, when the Inquisitor’s agents extended her invitation_.

And now, Dagna stood on top of the mountains instead underneath them, and that made her feel even giddier; she wondered briefly above which part of Orzammar she walked _right now, was this not amazing_ , but she dismissed this thought as quickly. _Homesickness, not good, the only thing she had not tinkered away so far, and might never_. There were happier things she could dwell on, for now.

Like being invited by the Inquisitor. The Inquisitor! This opportunity was so exciting, she could have never passed it up. _It were moments like these that made her miss her father not as much_.

The guards at the gate had told her Inquisitor Adaar was away, _on business somewhere in Orlais, too important to postpone, and of course they would notify her of the dwarf’s arrival, and no, they were not looking down at her funny_ , which had left her disappointed, at first. But there was so much to see, _to learn_ , that she immediately focussed on what she should explore first instead. _The possibilities!_

Skyhold’s people were busy with reparations, she observed quickly. The yard was filled with wooden scaffolds, leaning at the high walls of the fortress, _and she spotted two things she could improve on them with only some ropes, but that had to wait_. Even though it had seen better days, as much as she was fazed with the fortress she had to admit that, it was still grand. Maybe she could work on something to help the builders? _No, her designs would take longer to take on form than the reparations; there would surely be something else she could help with, that was why she was here after all_.

Dagna turned to look for the group she had arrived with. For the last miles, she had travelled with pilgrims and refugees, tired from the war that tore apart their families, countries, _their world_. That made her sad. One day, she would help them, too.

They had continued up the stairs towards the main castle, while she had stopped to admire the place _and its magic, surely she could not feel it but how could it not be here?_ Probably to find rooms to rest; which, if she was honest, was not a bad idea. She could not help much if she was too tired, anyway.

Still engrossed in the small marvels she found, _did these vines really grew out of stone? Ancestors, if she taught Orzammar how to do this she would be made Paragon and she might even be allowed to return home_ , she climbed up the steps and eventually reached the main building.

Up here, the walls of the main hall were also supported with scaffolds, with people bustling around them to restore Skyhold to its former glory, _not that she needed much imagination to think how it would look like once finished._ Large, colourful glass windows at the head of the hall, with sunlight that fell onto the tiny dust particles floating lazily through the air; underneath them stood a giant throne upon a dais, _and she recognised its style from a book she had read once, was it Fereldan, or Avvar, but it surely would make the Inquisitor look regal and she could not wait to see that_ ; and doors to the sides of the hall lead to even more rooms she could, _and would_ , explore. Maybe she would start tomorrow, but she definitely would.

To her right, she spotted another dwarf, polishing stone tiles before he hung them up on the wall behind him. He did not have the markings of the Carta, _still ingrained in her to check the faces, always check the faces her father had told her and he had been right about that_ , or of a casteless _but neither had she and here she was on the surface to never, ever return home_. Instead, he wore traditional Orzammar guild tattoos, and she guessed he was part of the masons, _but only because of the stone plates in his hands, had she really forgotten so much about home already?_

Since he was also here, with the Inquisition, he seemed safe enough to talk to. “Hi! I’m Dagna, I just got here. What are you doing for the Inquisition?”

Her question seemed to have startled him, for he almost dropped the tiles from his hands. “Name’s Gatsi,” he replied, squinting at her. _Checking her face_ , from what she could tell.

“Isn’t it exciting to be here? I’m excited! This place is amazing, I can’t wait to meet the Inquisitor! Have you met her?” She did not even try to keep her enthusiasm out of her voice. _Why should she, anyway?_

“Yes,” he drawled, with _that look she knew; that look she meant she talked too much and too fast, Grand Enchanter Irving had said as much when they had met but there was so much she wanted to know and wanted to tell in return so why should that be wrong?_

“How long have you been up here?” From the way he asked she knew he did not mean the time she had spent in Skyhold.

“Ten years, approximately.” She paused. “No, ten years and three months. And five days. A while,” she added sheepishly. _Not everyone wants to know all the details her father had chided her when she still worked at the shop and she was not certain she understood, if she knew it why should she hold back_ , but Gatsi nodded only sympathetically.

“Me as well. Left right after everything went bloody insane down there. Can’t say I regret it, though, if I’m honest.”

She nodded in return, _as serious as she could because his tone was serious and this matter was serious right_ , and turned around, ready to discover all the secrets this place had to offer; but Gatsi caught her arm with one hand, the stone tile still clutched tightly in his other.

“If you ever need someone to talk to, I am here, lass. I understand,” he said, voice low and eyes soft, and she nodded again, _with a sob strangling her throat and she really, really missed her father_ , she might take him up on that. He blinked, satisfied, and released his grip; as he returned his attention towards the tile, she could venture forth.

Dagna only took a few steps towards the centre of the hall, head craned around to examine an inscription in one of the doorframes, _and that reminded her she needed to study more languages_ , until she collided with someone else. Stumbling backwards to keep her balance, _and that was what she got for not looking where she walked but the floor was less interesting and she would probably not stick to that newly found wisdom anyway_ , apologies just spilled from her mouth before she could stop herself.

“I’m so sorry! Are you hurt? I should have paid more attention to where I was wal- Solona?”

The other person stiffened visibly, and Dagna looked up into the dark-blue eyes she had never forgotten.

“Dagna?” Solona’s voice sounded surprised, _and why would she not be, who could have thought they would meet here again of all places, but then again, where else_ , but her mouth curved up slightly into a small smile, and Dagna felt herself answer in kind.

“It _is_ you! I’m so happy to see you! How are you? You’re also here to help the Inquisition? Are the others here, too? How are they? _Please_ tell me you still travel with the golem!”

She still smiled, _and it felt to her like the last ten years had never happened and they were still in Orzammar but they had and they were here now, and it was so complicated to feel_.

“No, they- I travel alone. It’s good to see you, Dagna.”

“Oh, that’s a bummer. I mean, it’s great to see you but the others were nice as well. And I had some questions to Shale. But nevermind. Have you already seen the Inquisitor? I have heard she is as tall as a tree!”

Solona paused, still smiling, and thought about her answer, _as she had back when they had first met she had always taken her seriously and she owed her so much for that_ , and Dagna took the time to really look at her. She was older, with white strands in her dark-brown hair, and she had small wrinkles around her eyes and her mouth. But she still stood as straight as she did ten years ago, when they had met underneath this very mountains, _and she was no poet but if that did not mean something the Stone should take her_. Something was different, though, but as Solona answered she snapped back her attention to her words.

“I have, and she is very tall. Maybe as tall as a tree, depends on the tree, really.”

“Works for me,” Dagna shrugged. She had read about the Qunari, _because of course she had, they were so different and fascinating,_ but she had never seen one, less talked to one. This would be so exciting!

“She can count herself lucky to have you here,” Solona said, with her smile slowly fading. That was what was different! She had been smiling all the time _because of whatwashisnameagain, and now she looked so exhausted and sad, she only wanted to hug her_.

So she did. She flung herself at towards the mage she had so much to thank for, pressed her face into her belly and looped her arms around her thighs.

“Everything will be fine! Now that _you_ are here, you can help!” Her words were muffled by the scratchy old cloak Solona wore, but audible nonetheless, as she gently petted Dagna’s hair in response.

“Maybe, it will,” she murmured, before she carefully untangled herself. “See you around,” she added, with the hint of a smile _that belonged there but hardly was and she already thought about how she could fix that_ , and then she disappeared through one nearest door.

New energy surged through her. The Hero was here! And she still knew her!

Dagna inhaled deeply. Time to find a place to settle in.


	5. The Ambassador

Reports had piled up on her desk while they were gone; the first time this had happened since they had found refuge in Skyhold’s vast halls. She detested the _thought_ of unprocessed paperwork alone, but it meant that, even in their absence, things were progressing. And she counted that more fortunate than her desire to simply clear her desk from all news.

The changes were visible, with the subtle mix of Fereldan and Orlesian styled furniture and tapestry she had commissioned on behalf of the Inquisitor, _to appease visiting dignitaries from both nations she had argued and the Inquisitor had only smiled at her and waved it through, and she was strangely proud of that, and something else, but she did her best to repress that_ ; but the Inquisition heraldry was ever-present, reminding everyone, residents and visitors alike, of their cause, their _purpose_. The white eye stared down from various walls, watching over the refugees and pilgrims that joined their ranks daily by now, _according to the latest census she received right at they rode through the gate_.

So, immediately after their arrival, Josephine had gone back to her small office, and had worked through the first stack of reports, invoices, and pleas. She had set aside funds to pay wages and negotiate treaties, signed contracts with new companies and prepared dossiers for their next meeting. Only when she had drawn up her schedule for the upcoming days, she had gone to bed.

The next morning, she got up early, _in times like these sleep was no priority, one of the first lessons her mother had taught her, long before she had sent her to Orlais; duty before anything else._ Today, she would deal with the aftermath of Celene’s death. New treaties, new negotiations, new conditions for _everything they had already worked out before_ , and it could prove to become a nightmare if handled incorrectly. She would do her best, surely, and she was confident in her abilities, but it meant a lot of work, _avoidable work if the court had only listened to Herah instead of mocking her, and sadly that was not the first time she had been disappointed by the way the game was played_.

The Inquisitor had been quiet on their way back through Orlais, even though they were successful in the end, _or at least Leliana claimed they were and that was another thing that worried her, but this had to wait when they had the time to discuss that privately_. Unusually quiet. She had refused to speak to anyone, _anyone but her and she chided herself she read too much into it and it did not mean anything_ , and they had talked, albeit sparsely. Her attempts to console the Inquisitor were brushed off, _though not unkindly, she was rough and blunt but never to her, and sometimes she could not help herself but wonder_. Eventually, she just rode at the tip of their formation, leading the party back to Skyhold, _as she had done once before after she had believed her to be dead, and she had been so worried_.

Josephine tried to direct her attention to the latest updates on Orlais’ current situation, but her mind would wander, whenever she had just managed to read the next few lines of perfumed words and untruths, _and not even on paper they could stop playing_. With Halamshiral at the back of her mind, her thoughts turned to their newest guests; quite a few minor nobles, both from Fereldan and Orlesian houses, had just arrived to proclaim their support for the Inquisition. She was relieved that her efforts at securing allies had paid off, that finally, they had their attention, _and their gold as Herah had said humourless when she had seen the first group of them walk into the fortress; the way she had sneered at their apparent entitlement towards their staff and their property had her giggle inwardly, because deep down, she began to feel the same, though she would never so bold as to state it openly_. But they were not at the top of her mind.

No, they also housed two additional illustrious figures; the liaison to the Orlesian court, from what she gathered an old companion of Leliana, _whom she said she disliked but trusted, and that would be enough for her_ , and perhaps one of the few shrouding herself in similar amounts of rumours and secrets. They had little common ground, Josephine had realised that rather quickly, but she seemed honest enough, and they needed any aid in their fight against Corypheus they could find, especially if it was offered so willingly.

And, the Hero of Ferelden herself, Vanquisher of the Fifth Blight, former Warden Commander of Ferelden, Arlessa of Amaranthine, Champion of Redcliffe… A string of titles for a common circle mage, vicious tongues had whispered, _but nothing about the Hero was common, she had not even glanced at her to see that_ , but she seemed uninterested into the gossip surrounding her; she was not bothered by anything, as far as she could believe those rumours, and the tales of those who already had the pleasure of meeting her, _but then again after facing and surviving an Archdemon, was there anything that left that could shake her?_

Some of those rumours _were_ alluring, she had to admit that, though she did believe none of them; some, because they were nothing but foolish, like the claims she was the leader of a crime syndicate, others because they sounded like one of Varric’s romance novels _which she of course had not read but the Hero falling in love with the only other Warden in Ferelden, who would believe that, really_ , and then there were those whispers that _just could not be true, in no way possible could the Hero be an ensnaring blood mage_.

After a quick glance over her schedule, _she was ahead of time, of course she was, she liked to challenge herself on things like these and the satisfaction that came with succeeding_ , so she filed away the paperwork she had examined and worked through, and neatly stacked those she had not, and left her office. _Time to welcome the Hero. She had planned to visit her today, anyway_.

The way to her guest quarters was not far; through the great hall to the top of the battlements, and the tower where the Hero stayed was at the far corner of the wall; it was one of the first they had restored. She knew Cullen had inspected it for himself, but he had chosen another tower as his personal office, with a better view over the fortress’ premises, right above the gate. _He also lived there, and she had told him from the beginning he would not get any sleep that way, but he would not listen to her_. She was more than content that the Hero had been lead to this particular part of Skyhold, if she was honest to herself, because it lay remote from the castle and its people bustling around it, but it was still close enough to the tavern that the Hero could find company if she desired to.

This time though, she took a detour to the kitchen, to fill a shallow wicker basket with a small loaf of freshly baked bread, some cheese and berries, as well as a flagon of wine, and made her way to the Hero’s tower, _and she seriously thought about having it named that way, even when the Hero would have left._ She smoothed out the wrinkles the basket had pressed into her skirt for the third time before she finally knocked on the door. Three short but determined raps at the door, _if she could not demand attention before she entered the room she did not need to try at all her mother had always said_ , and then she waited.

The room behind the door stayed silent. Maybe, she had misjudged the Hero; maybe, she was out, reconnecting with people she had met during the Blight. Or maybe, she was simply sleeping, _and disturbing the rest of a guest as important as her was unforgivable_. Josephine raised her hand again, hesitant to knock again. _Maybe, she should try again later_.

As she decided to turn around _and bring the basket to the Inquisitor instead, she would not let this food go to waste and it was an excuse to seek her out she would gladly take_ , the door creaked open, and the Hero appeared in the opening, her shoulder leaning against the frame. She had replaced her torn boots with new ones made from supple deepstalker hide, and a piece of a clean bandage was visible around her wrist from under her sleeve, but she still wore the old, threadbare, and multiple times patched cloak, _and did the one crafted from fine velveteen she had sent to her had not reached her yet, it would ward of the cold better than this almost tattered piece of cloth ever could._ It still concealed anything she wore _or hid, but she surely should not think of their guest this way_ underneath it.

It were her eyes, however, that truly captured Josephine’s attention. Their dark-blue colour reminded her of the few stormy days she had experienced back home, when the otherwise shallow waters of Rialto Bay had turned dark and dangerous, _and it piqued her curiosity, which storm might rage behind those eyes_. They were expressive, intelligent; the wrinkles around them told her of a time less worrisome, but the dark circles beneath them told her those times lay in the distant past. She could drown in these eyes, _and somehow, she knew others already had_.

She cleared her throat before she spoke, _a nervous habit but she could do nothing about it, no matter how often her mother would reprimand her for this_.

“I am inconsolable the Inquisitor was not here to greet you properly on your arrival, Lady Amell, but please, let me assure you that we will make up for it!” The only visible reaction was the ever so slight look of relief at the used title, _and she was suddenly so glad she had asked Leliana about things like these on their trip back_ , and confusion at the basket filled with food she was handed; but neither did linger on her face for long, for it quickly turned into the blank expression the Hero was famed for already among those who had met her.

“Thank you, Lady Montilyet, but that won’t be necessary. We are at war, after all.” Her smile was tired, _and fake, always remember to smile with her eyes she had been told, the most important thing she had learnt in Orlais_.

Josephine inclined her head, and made a mental note to remind the staff that the location of the Hero’s room was not to be made publicly known, _not even for the finest silk, the strongest ale, or their weight’s worth in sovereigns, she would even ask Leliana to emphasise the importance of it_ ; though she knew very little of the woman behind the title, she knew nobility far too well, and she had heard especially Orlesian tongues ask around, more or less obvious, _so she did not wonder why they were here and not playing the game at_ court, and eager to meet the famed Hero. Somehow, she did not want them to disturb her.

Instead of voicing her concerns about the other guests, _because what host would she be if she did, they were their guests after all_ , she widened her smile just a bit, and squeezed her eyes accordingly, as she answered.

“Very well, if you insist, Lady Amell. But please know, that you are always welcome at the Inquisitor’s table. As are any requests of yours we can fulfil; if you are missing anything we can procure, we will try our best to do so.

“However, speaking of war: The Inquisitor has arranged a strategy meeting tomorrow, to discuss our further proceedings at Adamant. I am also here to invite you to join us there, if you are interested. The Inquisitor was convinced your insights of the Wardens would be most beneficial for planning the mission ahead.”

She waited, gauging the Hero’s reaction. The other woman nodded curtly. “I will be there.” Then, she looked at her with an arched brow, “Anything else, Lady Montilyet?”

“That would be all. I shall see you tomorrow, Lady Amell.” She curtsied, and turned around to walk back to her office. Behind her, she heard the door close shut.

_Whoever thought Morrigan to be mysterious and aloof, had not met the Hero._


	6. The Witch

Skyhold was truly a magnificent place, and magical; in the most literal sense she could think of. Strange powers pulsed through the stonework, were buried the ground, and were even caught in the winds. She could feel their presence so strongly, _so tangibly_ , she felt at times she could touch them if she only reached out her arm.

It was strange, yes, as it was different from the magic pulled from the fabric of the Fade; it was old, even ancient; definitely older than the Veil, if her assumptions were correct, and they usually were. _And it lingered_. Having been here long before her ancestors had even set foot on Thedas, this magic would subsist until long after her descendants had left. _Not literally, this time, what kind of mother could she be with the role model she had?_

Though she supposed she had to thank her mother for feeling something familiar in this magic, _at least one thing the old hag had taught her which she could use_. She remembered Flemeth conjuring similar energies, and now she stood in the midst of a _field of this very energy_. It was complex in its own intricate way, and very interesting, _and a mystery she would work hard to solve_.

In Skyhold’s garden the magic was the strongest, Morrigan had found, and she had the ambassador arrange her quarters to be close to it. Encased by the thick, high walls of the fortress, here it was also warmer than anywhere in the rest of the keep, and she suspected the warmth was also caused by the magic in the ground. _Astonishing indeed_ … Warm enough for her to swap her courtly attire for her old clothes, _and even if she started to feel cold, she could still change her skin instead, maybe into a bear_.

Since her arrival, she had spent most of her waking time here, reading books she had borrowed from the small library she had found in the cellar. Filled to the ceiling with all sort of books, most of them old and long forgotten by history and humanity, she easily found some about the arcane she was interested in, and she wondered briefly how the Inquisition had gotten their hands on those rare pieces of literature, as none of those she had met so far seemed overly interested in the written word. But learning the secrets hidden away between the pages was more alluring to her than pondering about their origin, _and she was not completely sure the Inquisitor even knew of the cobweb and dust covered treasures lying in the small chamber._

Questioning the Inquisitor was not her place, _not yet, anyway_ , and she had accepted her without asking many in turn, either, _and it reminded her of a time it happened bevor, being handed off to a lost cause to turn the tide, and she honestly wondered where this path might lead her now_. Not that she was not grateful for it; after Celene’s death, there was no place for her in Orlais anymore. If the Inquisition had not been there to take her in under whatever pretences Gaspard could come up with on the spot, she might have faced a different fate, _he was known to harbour no sympathy towards mages, especially those not locked away in some remote tower_. She had been in hiding too long already, and was tired of it.

So anything she knew, _all the knowledge she had gathered on her own travels_ , was the Inquisitor’s to take. All she needed to do was ask. What she sought to find herself might even align with the Inquisitor’s goals, _and this time, she would make sure to be more persuasive than the last_. And if they succeeded, then it was time to call in the favours she had collected like pretty butterflies, _before she even went to Orlais, she had known to trade favours for favours and now it would be her turn_.

When she arrived here, Morrigan had not been overly surprised to find the seat of the Inquisition to be Skyhold, for a place like this chose his owners. Even less, when she remembered that Leliana was part of the organisation, though she had little in common with the girl she once travelled with. Not that she minded, really; she had always thought her as too naïve, too childish, _and her music at least as obnoxious as the dwarf’s constant need to burp, or the idiot’s constant need to talk_. She would even go so far to be pleased about the change to a more serious person. _She did not even break out in song when they met again. A wonder!_

Thinking about old friends who had changed though… The moment she had arrived, _quite a bit before the others had, for she had different means of travel, and wings would always be faster than feet_ , she had heard the gossip echoing from the walls. The Hero herself had come to aid the Inquisition in their cause.

Morrrigan had hoped they were not true. Her friend, _the first and only person she had called friend,_ had suffered through too much for a lifetime, and while it was an important endeavour, everything it promised was only more sorrow, _and Solona had been weary the last time they had met and that seemed so long ago already_.

But the rumours persisted, and eventually _her mind played tricks on her because sometimes she even saw her when she should not be here_ ; one time, Morrigan swore she saw the hem of the very cloak she had gifted to her when they had parted, disappear behind a corner, _it could not be, why should she still have it_ , and found a strand of dark-brown hair on a bench another time, _ripped out and she knew what it meant and it was too soon, it made her sick_.

She confined herself to the garden after that. She _felt_ her magic, even here. Warden mages not only had the taint in their blood, but in their magic as well, and in hers especially, _she had carried that blackness in her for too long_. They also had less time than others before they succumbed to the corruption, though she was not sure if this part was actually true, or merely a tale of a drunk.

Being a Warden, however, _and_ practising blood magic… _She had asked her to take a different path, but whatever it might take she had only said as she cut her wrist for the first time_.

A sudden shift in the air told her of a new presence in the garden, and she did not need to turn around to know who stood behind her. _So much for calling the demons one spoke of…_

“’Tis good to see you, old friend.”

“Hello, Morrigan.”

Her voice had changed, too, _like something was caught in her throat and all she wanted now was to rip it out_ , and she had to close her eyes forcefully to ban the image of how she used to look from her mind before she turned. _The cheerful apprentice had died with her love a decade ago_. Still, she was not prepared for how much she had changed.

Solona’s pale skin was streaked with a dark web of fine lines, and she spotted a few dark splotches at her throat, _and she could not quite ignore the futile hope they were nothing but shadows from the cloak she wore but she knew better._ She ran her hand through her thinned out hair, and all Morrigan saw was the tremble in its movement and the lock of silver and brown hair, _even though it should not be silver yet, it was too soon_ , that hung between her fingers as she pulled it back out.

“Time has changed you,” Morrigan only said, _because she could not find other words to say to her, but she could not have it end here and now_. All she got, was a tired shrug in return.

“Time, and the taint. You know this as well as I do.”

“You did not find a- what you sought?” The question had burned itself into the back of her mind, and she knew the answer long before Solona shook her head, _but it still stung, she had not been this helpless in a long time and she hated it_.

“I’ve followed a few leads, but they all lead me nowhere. Just look at me now, Morrigan, it is too late for me anyway.”

 _This she could not do, she was too selfish for that, and she refused to listen though she heard the truth in words_ , and a humourless laugh escaped Solona’s throat, _or was it a cough it sounded similar, and she was not sure which would frighten her more_.

“Every Warden in Orlais is hearing the false Calling but me, mine is real, and I’m the only one not going mad.”

She hesitated at the _spite_ that laced her words, unsure how to respond to that. This was new, even to her. The years had truly been not kind to her, numbing her. And what time had not taked, the taint had killed.

“I am sorry to hear that, my friend. If anyone deserved to find a cure, ‘twas you.”

“It’s kind of you to say so, but my fate was sealed before I even joined the order. I would’ve been made tranquil if I hadn’t. Not that I’ve felt much different for the last ten years,” she added with a bitter undertone, “but I’m more effective against darkspawn this way.” Her attempt at a joke fell flat, and she shook her head, again, _and why did this make her look even more tired?_

“Sometimes, it’s hard to remember him. His voice, his face… I can’t piece it together anymore. All I’ve left are fragments that don’t fit together.” Her voice tuned down to a whisper, barely audible if they had not had way to understand one another, _and she almost cursed this connection now, she wanted her old friend back_. She knew her friend had withdrawn herself from everyone after the Blight, _and who was she to judge about that_. And she knew it was not only because of Alistair’s death, _and maybe, that helped repress the part of her that wanted to shout how he was not worth her suffering like he had not been worth her laugh all those years ago, as little it would help to say it._

Before she could stop herself, the words were out of her mouth.

“May I remind you, ‘twas you who had spurned my offer; if you had accepted my proposal-“

“Don’t you dare say it!” The spat hit her in her face with a smack, _her face certainly burned like it was hit_ , and she took a step back out of reflex. Anger flickered in Solona’s eyes; it was gone with a blink, replaced by the stubborn blankness she was familiar with, but she was convinced she had seen it. _Good. Anger she could work with_.

“Don’t you think I have not told that to myself each day since? Don’t you think I curse myself for even taking him to the top of Fort Drakon? He should have been king, and I should have died.”

The more she spoke, the more she conflated, until her final word were devoid of any trace of anger. Instead, she had dug her nails into her palms, _and the last time she had heard her speak like this was to Loghain and that did not end well for him_.

But the edge disappeared from her eyes, and her weariness came back, so intense _it hurt_.

“I just-“ she interrupted herself. Whatever she wanted to say, she swallowed and began anew. “Soon, it will be over, one way or the other. Take care, Morrigan.”

She turned without another word, _less explaining her cryptic promise because she was certain it was one_ , and left the garden to the main castle. _Why did it feel so much like a farewell?_

Morrigan would miss her friend. The woman who had just left the garden, was not her. Not anymore.

“Farewell, my friend,” she whispered. Hopefully, she would find what she was looking for. Whatever it might be.


	7. The Commander

Another night he would not sleep. He had lain awake for the better part of it, after he had eventually left his desk and his work, but with sleep came the nightmares. Cullen had thrashed in his bed, fighting against them with all he had, in the few moments he had his eyes closed; his skin was slick with his sweat, and his sheets were soaked.

Then, he shot up. It took him a while to ground himself, to convince himself it was not real, _only in his head but did that really make it any less real?_ His hands were still clutching parts of his sheets, _and if he kept tearing his sheets someone would ask awkward questions soon_. Most of the fabric lay crumpled on the floor, he slowly realised, as the air coming down from the hole in the roof cooled him rapidly. _How could the thin linen be so heavy it was all but crushing the air from his lungs, pressing him down like the demons once had_.

He could still feel sweat running down his temples, despite the heat _that always came with his panic_ had left him. His skin was also burning, _the lyrium fever he was so familiar with but could never get used to_.

As he had given up sleep for this night, he instead went through his routine of breathing exercises; they helped to calm him, _convince him this was real and before was not and the lines were blurring more each time he woke up_. With an annoyed grunt, he rubbed the last traces of sleep out of his eyes, and got up to splash some water against his face. The clear, cool water helped to wash away the nausea that came with the dreams. It helped more than most things, _and he would not even think of that now when he had promised he would not take it_. He would make do with water.

Not that he was surprised, really. Even before the ball of Halamshiral he had hardly found rest; but their masks had given him chills, _masks like the demons wore back at the tower, wearing his friends’ faces like those wore their houses’ colours and the thought alone brought back the same sickness and helplessness he had felt_. And now, with everything at stake, how could he even _think_ of sleeping when there was so much to do?

What he needed now, was work, or drills. Any kind of routine, that would keep his thoughts from wandering, and his mind awake. Before that, fresh air, _small tasks, manageable tasks and breathing, he must not forget to breathe_.

He dressed himself quickly, a pair of breeches and a loose linen tunic, to ward off the cold outside, _but he had to lace down the collar so it would not choke him_ , and he slung his mantle over his shoulder; Cullen would go, where his dreams could not find him. The night’s crisp coolness would clear his head, and he could get back to work.

With a muffled thump he let the heavy door to his office fall into place behind him. He wished he could leave his demons behind just as easily as he did with his quarters. As his office, however, they would wait for him to return, _and a sign of weakness and he had to persevere_.

Cullen inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the fresh, cold air. Skyhold had been built so high up in the Frostbacks, the stars shone brighter above him here, _and they were so close he could touch them if he only reached out his hand and tried_. The open sky had always helped to ease his anxiety, _since Kinloch especially_. One of the reasons he had declined further reparations in his tower, even though his official reasoning were more pressing concerns within the keep’s structure that needed immediate attention. Which was true; he only refrained from calling the carpenters when their main work was done. And since he really did not mind the hole in his ceiling, any other matter was more pressing.

But only so much air found its way into his bedchamber, and it was hardly enough, not when the nightmares found him, _he would rather open another one because it was not letting in enough air some nights, the worse nights_.

He breathed again, and again, slowly finding his rhythm. _A few more minutes, and he would go back to work_. With his hands leaned upon the tone balustrade, he gazed over the Frostbacks; they were only vaguely perceptible in the darkness, with only stars and one of the moons to illuminate parts of them. But even though he could hardly more than feel their presence, standing out here gave him a sense of freedom _no other place could_. He would never be a prisoner again, neither from the Chantry, nor the order, nor lyrium, _he knew it was easier to vow than to do but here he felt he could act on it, and he had to try_.

The sound of a closing door had his head whip around. From the tower at the other side of the battlements emerged a figure, their shadowy body floating over the walkway towards him. _No, just a dark cloak and shadows, his mind was playing tricks again_. They seemed to have noticed him as well; a small pause in their step, before they continued.

He squinted at the person, to make out who had also sought the solace of the mountains. Only when they lifted the wide hood from their face, he recognised her, _for how could he forget the face that haunted his nights the most?_

“S-solona?” he forced out. Surprise hit him so strong he could not mask it, and he honestly did not care to, _he was never fond of masks either way_. Sure, she looked older, and more tired than he remembered, but then again a decade had passed since. _Ten years ago she had saved him and how had he thanked her for it?_ But her eyes, _he had never forgotten her eyes_ , were still of that intense dark-blue, _dark, not bright like lyrium, another thing the demons taunted him with, the two things he would never call his own_.

“Commander,” she answered with a curt nod. She stopped a mere step away from him, and with a similar pose she looked over the mountains.

They stood there in silence, next to each other, while he contemplated what he could say, _words, why did he never know what to say around her?_ He was still in awe of her, maybe even more so than he used to, back when she was still an apprentice and he a fresh recruit.

Every now and then, he peeked over to her, who seemed to be comfortable with the quiet. The cold moonlight brought out the silvery white strands in her hair, but also took away her harshness; instead it softened her features, evened out the wrinkles dug into her forehead, and made her appear more like the apprentice he once knew, _as much as a templar could know a mage_.

He winced at this unbidden thought, it hurt more than it should, _but he deserved it, and welcomed it because it meant he was awake and not trapped in another nightmare_.

“I-I want to apologise,” he blurted out suddenly, gaze fixated onto the distant mountaintops. Startled by his own outburst, he stole a glance to his side, _at her_ ; she did not show any reaction but for a slight arch in her brow. Now that he had started, he found he could not stop the words spilling out of him.

“You saved my life, back in- in Kinloch, and I directed my anger at you, I was so full of anger and spite and- and I threw it all at you. It was untoward, and you deserved better that this, and… After Ulric- after what happened in the circle, I had held onto this anger for so long, and I didn’t realise that until it was too late and I- I only got this far because of you,” he finished lamely, knowing his words went somewhere else than he wanted them to. Only when he had stopped speaking, he turned to face her.

Solona had listened patiently, _as she used to when he still stuttered and fumbled in the circle, but he did not feel he fared much better now_ , before she turned towards him. Her gaze caught his and kept it, _as the demons, just like them, this was more familiar than it should be, how had he fallen for that again_ , and panic rose like bile in his throat. She was the embodiment of calmness.

Solona looked at him, _through him_ , for a while, lips pursed in thought. He all but stared at her, and followed the lines in her face and the fine scars on her neck, _and it froze his blood for a moment but it could not be, not her, she had seen what happened when Ulric had taken over_ , until they disappeared underneath the dark-grey cloak.

“I have left this life behind me long ago, Commander,” she eventually said with a level voice and carefully chosen words, _just as he remembered her, calm every time they had spoken but once and he still wished he had not run away then_. Her words were enough to capture his attention, and direct it away from the questions about her scars that formed in his mind; back to reality, _or dream because right now he was not certain but the demons had never said anything like this before_.

“My duties lie elsewhere, now as much as they did ten years ago, and I’ve been called worse in the time between.”

He could not help one side of his mouth to curve up at her light tone. It was relieving to hear, and his hand made its way to his neck, _and she smirked, she remembered as well as he did_ , before his gaze dropped to the floor. His heart beat louder, drummed in his ears, _and why did she make him feel like a green recruit all over again?_

“If you feel better, though: I accept your apology, even though it isn’t necessary. Others, tortured the way you were, would’ve reacted worse. Now, it’s important to focus on the course lying ahead of us. There is no room for regret.”

Her voice had died down to a whisper, and the wind ripped the words from her lips before she had finished speaking, yet he still understood. But the sudden, overwhelming sadness in her eyes, _not a dream, definitely not a dream_ , made him think that the last part was not only meant for him.

She shook her head, shaking off unwelcome thoughts, _he knew how that looked like better than he liked_ , but the melancholy stayed, etched into her face. Not even the moonlight could take it away, or the weariness _that was so obvious now he wondered how he had missed it so far_ ; he recognised the dark circles under her eyes, _and he understood she battled her own demons in her sleep, or else she would not wander Skyhold at night_.

“Until tomorrow, Commander,” she said, reverting back to her formal neutrality, and walked back the way she came, away from him _and his life, once again, and once again he was powerless to stop it_.

He stood there, staring at the door she had retreated through, until the sky began to brighten over the eastern walls. Another gust of wind surged against him, and he bristled at it, awakening from the stasis. _Time to get back to work_.


	8. The Spymaster

She watched he candle burn down. A silly little ritual she had learned back when she was a laysister, and when she had sworn to leave her past behind her. She watched how beads of molten wax ran down the candle’s shaft, and thought about how she should have known better. She watched the flame consume the whole body of the candle, until it flickered from the lack of fuel and died down, and she vowed once again, that she would not be quenched as easily. _Her resources were not endless, but she would persevere_.

When she was still in Lothering, she had prayed in silence, for as long as the candle burned. The mother had told her that the last prayer she sent towards the Maker before the candle was extinguished would come true. So, she had pleaded more fervently the lower the candle burned.

She still prayed, she even had erected her own little shrine in the rookery, _her last bastion of faith Josie had joked once when she had visited her but she had no idea how much that had hit the mark_ ; though not nearly as often as she used to, _but once she believed the Maker had chosen her, a notion that made her laugh without joy_. And when she prayed, she did not ask for forgiveness, humility, or a simple sign of guidance. Leliana prayed for… different things.

After Haven, things had changed, _too much to just continue_. She needed to be more prepared, and less hesitant. _If she had sent more scouts, or even someone faster, someone quieter, they might have had a chance, an advantage, to save more of those who had trusted them, and there came no day she did not replayed it in her head_.

She had put all her faith into the Maker, once. It seemed so long ago now, the foolish dreams of a naive girl. She had really believed in her vision, and in Him and His wisdom to choose her among all his followers. She had thought she could help the Hero in her battle against the Blight.

But when Alistair had sacrificed himself, and Solona had withdrawn from anyone, He had not intervened. When hundreds of Kirkwall’s citizens were slaughtered in the Qunari massacre, He had looked the other way. And now, with Justinia gone as well… _The naive girl she had been once died a long time ago, and she had only recently realised it; there was only so much her faith could be tested until she had to question it_.

It became harder to renew her faith in Him every passing day. Or, maybe, she simply stopped looking for His signs. _If He had truly abandoned them, waiting would waste time they could not spare_. With a final glance towards the shrine, and the smoke that rose lazily from the candle, Leliana descended the rotunda.

There was much they needed to discuss today, and just as much decisions they had to make, if they wanted to stop Corypheus’ demon army. And she would do _anything_ to stop it, _this time she would not repeat the mistakes made in Haven_.

Someone had passed her in the main hall just _that tiny bit too close_ , and she found a folded piece of parchment in her hand. A smirk tugged up the corner of her lips. Her people were getting better, _not yet the shadows she needed them to be but they were getting closer to that, they had learnt well_ ; she could not even say who had slipped her the note, _or at least she could not name them at the top of her head_. Still improvable, though, and she would note that the next time she summoned one of her groups.

She unfolded the note, and it confirmed a few suspicions she had after she had read Hawke’s debrief. _Just in time for their meeting_. As she paced through Josie’s office, she crumpled the paper in her fist, and tossed it into the low burning fireplace; the flame consumed it greedily, leaving no trace of it within mere seconds. Only then, she walked through the corridor and opened the door to their meeting room, _and she knew how to open it so it did not creak._

Inside, she saw that Cullen had arrived before her, _as usual, she was familiar with his habits by now_ , too engrossed in the maps and reports he studied to take much notice of her. _If she wanted to be silent she could_ , but this was not the reason she was here for, so she cleared her throat audibly.

His head shot up, _and she was pleased to see his military reflexes were still kicking in sharp despite his withdrawal_ , and she saw he was startled by the noise, until he noticed her, standing partly concealed in the shadows. _It was easier to watch this way, always had been_. Cullen acknowledged her presence with a nod, before he returned his attention back to the papers cluttering the massive, wooden table.

While she waited for the others to join them, she unrolled a small piece of parchment, torn from the bottom of some report or letter, _not important enough to dwell on it_. But after they had decided on their main actions, she would have to notify her agents instantly, and one of her ravens sat outside the windows, waiting for her command. _A crow had taught her to always have some breadcrumbs for her messengers with her; she missed him_.

Eventually, the others filed into the room. Solona walked to the head of the table, _as if she tried to stand the farthest away from them and some part of her hurt to see that_ , Josie joined them on their side of the table, and the Inquisitor closed the door behind her.

All of them agreed they needed to act, _which was a first_ , and after everyone was updated to the latest information, they decided they needed to be _fast_. Her old companion was urging to leave especially.

“We need to march as soon as possible, Inquisitor. We found enough hints that Erimond had spoken truthfully; at Adamant, I had difficulties to _sense_ the Wardens, but even Hawke had felt the demons lingering there. Each minute we speak here, more demons are summoned and bound to the Wardens. The longer we wait, the harder the fight will become.”

Solona’s mouth was pressed into a thin line. She had always had this look when she was set on her actions, _and some things did not change even when everything else did._ Leliana saw behind her mask, however, _for she had taught her how to wear one_. It was not as easy for her as she used to, but she still knew her, _and maybe even understood her better now_. Solona did not like the plan, but she knew it was necessary. _Even when it meant the death of her brothers and sisters_.

Ten years ago, she had told her, _begged her_ , to let Marjorlaine go and _she had, and then she had promised she would never become like her, but now both of them were here and they knew better; they had to sacrifice some things to gain the upper hand_. Now, they only nodded, determined to complete the mission, _at all costs_.

The Inquisitor, _her mask quite different to read, not impossible but different, but Sten had been as stoic at times_ , thought for a moment. _She was more impressive than her old companion_ , with her curved horns with their plated ends, and her size alone. It took a while, but then she nodded.

“I think that will be all; we will leave as soon as our troops are mobilised, Commander.” He inclined his head, _and he would prepare their soldiers to march tomorrow at dawn, and so it would begin_. While he gathered _and neatly stacked_ his papers, Josie seemed hesitant to terminate the meeting. Leliana cocked her head at the way her friend played with her hands.

“Inquisitor, there is something… personal I need to discuss with you. Could we meet, at your convenience of course, your Worship?”

“Of course, Lady Montilyet, at once.” She opened the wooden door, _with a creak and she could not help but smirk at the way they grimaced at the noise_ , that lead out of the war room, and gestured towards the hallway. “After you,” she added, _with a voice as soft as velvet and she might need to talk to the Inquisitor about that as well, and what she should focus on in these times_ , and she guided Josie out of the room, with her hand gently placed on her lower back.

Cullen followed behind shortly afterwards, but not without glancing a final time towards the room, _towards Solona and after what happened she would have been surprised at how smoothly their meeting went; if one of her shadows had not whispered to her about the nightly rendezvous the two of them had shared_. Ten years ago, she would have called it _fate_ and _romantic_ , and she might have composed ballad dedicated to a love thought lost; but those words had lost their meaning to her, and _she had no time to waste with song_. She needed results.

Solona remained behind in silence. Both of them had no sense for idle talk, not now, with this much at stake, _but it was so strangely familiar_ , and despite herself, Leliana began to hope. Even after Solona had left the room to seek out her own quarters, and even though she herself stayed in the war room long after she had sent off her instructions for the coming day, pouring over the blueprints pierced with their various symbols, to mark the positions for the different groups, their task seemed _bearable_. For the first time since Justinia’s death, their whole mission, _her legacy_ , seemed manageable.

With the Hero of Ferelden herself accompanying them in this mission, they could not fail. _And then, after they had stopped this threat, they might find time to talk about old times again_.


	9. The Spirit

Spiders were busily weaving their nets between the old, wooden beams in the attic. They almost seemed to work in tune with the music that floated upwards from the ground floor. _Why should spiders not dance?_ And they helped, just like him.

Cole had learnt to change his help, like Rhys had asked him to. _He did not know how before but now he did and he was trying so hard_.

He felt more hurt from the courtyard. In that place he was needed more. The spiders would continue without him, he knew that. They had woven fine, _frail_ , _fragile_ nets before, catching dew that glittered in so many colours when the sun was just rising. He liked watching them, and he would come back later; _and they were quiet._ But he was here to help.

Solas had told him he should walk more, _but why when he needed to be there and it was faster his way_. So he just thought himself where he wanted to be.

His legs dangled over the edge, hands leaning on the cool stone ledge, as he watched the yard. It was only a narrow piece jutting out of the wall, but it was one of his favourite places here. From up here, he could see far, and _feel_ even further. And he felt many pains now. _I haven’t seen my parents where- I can’t breathe anymore someone please- This is all my fault how is she-_

Their voices, _thoughts, feelings_ , were jumbled, chaotic, but he could separate them, if he only concentrated enough.

The hurt grew quieter, and instead was overlaid with a _thankfulness_ so strong he had to look around to see where it came from. He spotted a group of people, making their way from the castle towards the gate; everyone was wearing armour and weapons.

 _The Inquisitor_. He liked her. He had helped her, and she let him help others in return. She tried to help others, too, but different from what he did.

She travelled with the one who laughed so loudly, and the one who taught him new things every now and then. He liked them, too. And she travelled with the woman who hated him, _and he did not know why, he could not help her if she did not let him_.

The other two, who trailed behind the group, he had avoided. _They were too loud_. The hurt of one of them was red, full of anger and hatred, it was so strong, she wanted to hurt others _but that would not help her and she knew it, still she did not stop_ ; He could not help her, too, not as long as she was this angry.

The other one was different, less hurting and more defeated, _disturbed, drowned_ by guilt. Still loud. And there was something else. Music, beautiful, _brilliant, bright, too bright he could not stand to listen for too long_.

“It’s growing louder, stronger, how long can I resist? I can’t follow, mustn’t follow, but I want to-“ Cole whispered her thoughts as they came to him. Maybe, _he could help her_. And then he was down in the courtyard, next to the gate.

“You are stronger than the music,” he said as she passed by. The wide brim of his hat shaded his face, and he looked down so he would not meet her gaze. _This was something only friends did, only Rhys did, and he would keep it that way_. But he did not need to see her to know that she looked through him before she _saw_ him, even though he had decided to show himself.

Hearing his own voice sometimes startled him. _But he could not help otherwise, he could do so much more if they could hear his thoughts, too._

“You don’t need to listen to it. The music can’t make you do things you don’t want to.”

She smiled sadly, _and why were so many smiles he saw sad when they should be happy, he did not understand,_ and shook her head.

“It’s not that easy, I’m afraid.”

“But it is,” he said, _because it was, how could she not see it_. “You think it’s too loud, and that it’s driving you insane, _I want it to stop but it doesn’t and I don’t want to end up like the others_.” He cocked his head, so he could listen to her thoughts better. ” _I’m tired_. But you still control yourself. You have won against worse odds. You are stronger than you think, _like he had always told you_.”

He could see, _feel_ she did not believe him, even though recognition flashed in her eyes, _and pain but he did not want to hurt her, she did not listen to anyone but him and he should make her happy, not sad_. But she also thought about it, and it helped to silence the music for now.

Waves of pain and hurt washed over him, now that the music had died down, all the way from the infirmary. _He could help them better_.

“Forget,” he whispered, as he walked past her.

She blinked once, and looked around with a confused expression, before she shook her head and turned to follow the rest of the group.

It made him sad when he could not help.


	10. The Scout

Everyone rose early. It was their last rest after their long journey here from Skyhold, and some seemed weary of the travel as they had arrived late in the evening, but Inquisitor Adaar had insisted on laying siege on Adamant at dawn.

 _No time to waste she had said with that steely gaze she had when she took on her role as the leader_. It was still weird to watch her switch from friend to _Inquisitor_ in a heartbeat; Lace understood it was necessary, however. _She had to separate herself from the role or the responsibility of it would drown her she had confessed to her in the tavern one night, and it were most likely the wisest words she had ever heard._

The clash of metal filled the air, as the soldiers helped each other into their armour. Finally, something that overlaid the continuous howling of the demons that roamed the fortress. They had made camp a half a mile away from it, and they were still so close, _too close for her comfort but comfort was one of those things she had given up all to willingly to help better the world._ Strangely enough, this _evil_ did not stray from its source; or at least only few of the demons did, so the alarms were not sounded during the night. Either way, she would not complain. She had gotten a few, precious hours of sleep, _everything she would get before the battle was over for good, anyway_ and was up and ready, like the rest of the camp would be soon.

Pushing away further distractions, she slung her bow over her shoulders and marched through the lines of tents towards the leaders’ portion, _as the others had dubbed it_. Adaar and Commander Cullen had their tents pitched in the centre of the square. Their sigils were sown onto the fabric to further distinguish them from the common ones the soldiers and scouts slept in. _Good thing there were no demon assassins around_.

She was glad she had bound additional leather strips around her soles as she walked over the dry, cracked ground. Her steps were muffled, and she did not leave any traces that lasted through a light breeze. All of the Nightingale’s agents had been drilled to move around with neither sound nor trail, and even when she was not acting in _her_ name, or not in the field, she could not break this habit _; not that she was trying hard to do so_.

The flap of the Commander’s tent opened the moment Lace stood before it, and he emerged from it, already clad in his armour, _and she wondered briefly if she had ever seen him without it when she was off duty in Skyhold_.

“Commander,” she saluted, lowering her arm only after he inclined his head.

“Scout Harding.”

“Have you decided on where my squad and I should be positioned, Commander?”

Usually, she answered directly to the Nightingale, but given this was an open battle with little opportunities to infiltrate the fortress effectively, she deferred to him for the time being. Especially, since she was tasked to lead a small force of archers, _something the naive girl she had been as she had volunteered could have never anticipated._

“You will await my signal, that the Inquisitor and her party have cleared the battlements. Only then will you man the walls surrounding the courtyard, where you will aid the Inquisitor if Clarel does not listen to reason. If the Maker is willing, you will not be needed after all today,” he answered without a hint of hesitation in his voice, which did surprise her a little; _but if he was as awkward as the rumours in the tavern had it, he would not have been made Commander, would he?_ The heavy sigh that followed his orders showed exactly how low he thought the chances for a peaceful talk would be.

“Yes, Commander. My people and me will be at the ready.”

She turned on her heel and walked briskly back towards the tent she shared with another scout. Though she was determined to fill out her new role to the best of her abilities, nervousness spread through her system like badly cut ale. It left her dizzy, with a wave of nausea threatening to overcome her, _and this was really not befitting her new responsibility_. So she grabbed the next best thing her hands found to steady herself, and ground her. After three forced, slow breaths, she could open her eyes again without the camp spinning around her, _and she would never have believed what a gift of the Maker that was_.

The pole she had clutched with both her hands was one of the Inquisition’s banners, she found as she looked up, and somehow, that also helped to calm her nerves. She was doing _good_ here, for the people back home, so she had to pull herself together. _She was not tending sheep anymore_. And she would not disappoint the Inquisitor, or her family. _She would not disappoint herself_.

A tent to her side opened, and she quickly released the pole; _there was no need for her to look like a child that could not hold in her drinks_. She did not turn her head to look at the person who stepped out of it, and from the glimpse she caught out of the corner of her eye, she did not have to, to recognise _her_. The blue and silver armour she was dressed in made it obvious.

Lace continued her way, back to the part of camp where she would find her tent and her squad. She rushed past the Hero, without sparing a further glance. R _idiculous, she knew, and childish_ , to all but flee from the woman who had delivered her home from the Blight over ten years ago. But there was _something_ about her that was putting her off. It was not just that she was somehow intimidating; so was the Inquisitor, but Lace had never felt the need to hide from her. The sheer power that came with the weight of the expectations laid upon them seemed intertwined with one another, she supposed. No, the Hero was more than that. The Hero downright frightened her. _As in she would rather_ _jump down a cliff on the Storm Coast than face her._

She had only seen her once before, when she had arrived in Skyhold, and she could not shake off that uncomfortable feeling creeping onto her since. And it was silly, _so silly, she knew the legends and had read the stories more times than she could be bothered to count_ , and still, that did not ease whatever worries had wormed themselves into her thoughts. _Who had said to never meet one’s heroes? They were right_.

Lace shook her head, trying to banish those unwelcome feelings once again. _She had to focus, she was not only caring for herself this time!_

More people had exited their tents, and busied themselves with preparations for the upcoming battle as she arrived back at her sleeping place. From afar, she watched the Inquisitor and her party meet at the outskirts of their camp, weapons drawn. Of course they would lead the assault, walking into danger without a second thought. She did not know the Inquisitor any different. _But still…_

Her heart grew heavy as she watched them march towards the fortress, followed by the soldiers who manoeuvred the siege engines. _But why? Surely all of them would return safe and sound, as they always had_.

Time for her to gather her own group, and finish their own preparations for the part they had to play in this. And if the Maker allowed it, they would succeed swiftly and with little casualties. _This thought was all to keep her sane right now_ , as she made off to seek out Hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who also loves Scout Harding please put your hands up ;) !  
> One of my favourite dwarves, her chapter was actually the last one I planned out 
> 
> I wanted to show a different side of her, and to ~~predict~~ imagine her growing in different roles ~~so she can be an advisor in the next game. I mean... adorable sneaky dwarf advisor? Do I need to say more? Didn't think so!~~
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked the latest chapter!  
> As always, feel free to leave kudos and or nice comments if you want to show appreciation :)


	11. The Seeker

When Herah had warned her that she had to face a demon army, she had not exaggerated. From every nook and cranny they spawned, all claws and teeth and eager to attack them on the spot. She lifted her shield and bashed it against one of those crawling towards her, and cleaved her sword through the neck of another. For every demon she slew, however, came three more out of the shadows. _And then there were the Wardens…_

Cassandra spat onto the ground. She was pressing forward into Adamant with the main force of the Inquisition, slowly following where Herah and her group and progressed more quickly. What they lacked in men, they made good with speed, _and again she wished Herah would have taken her into the infiltration team_. She knew it was petty; helping Cullen to lead the soldiers was equally important. But their slow pace was grinding on her nerves, exhausting her already thin patience. _They were taking too long; they should have reached the courtyard by now!_

She sunk her sword into a shade that went for her flank, and she used her momentum to whirl around and smite the mage behind her, _her skin had prickled as the air was charged with energy from the Fade, her most trusting way to tell_ ; then she sank her shield into the ground, crashing down onto a terror’s feet while blocking its claws. Its pained scream almost made her think they would have a chance in this. _Almost_.

Cassandra pushed away her doubts, slashing a demon’s chest so it stumbled backwards. As long as they could fight, they could make it. It was tiring, yes, and the size of the horde before them was disheartening, but they would withstand their force, at least. They had always found a way to come up on top, _and now was not the time to stop._

On their way to the centre of the fortress, they met Warden warriors who had yielded, and she dispatched Ser Belinda with a few soldiers to escort them to the entrance. _And they should watch them closely, she whispered to her, until the Inquisitor returned to judge them for their crimes_. Just because they had surrendered, they were not absolved of the wrongdoings they had both committed and permitted to happen within their order. _But she considered everyone, whom they did not have to fight, a sign from the Maker Himself at this point._

She signalled the soldiers to halt, as they entered the courtyard. In its middle, Herah was already trying to persuade the Wardens to disarm, and to capitulate as their brothers-in-arms did before them. It was not the Inquisitor, however, who caught her attention.

 Cassandra could not avert her gaze from the Hero of Ferelden, and the way she had changed. Not only was she sporting her Warden armour, _more proudly than all of the Wardens in the yard combined, if she might add_ , instead of hiding herself underneath that old, shabby cloak of hers; the withdrawn, quiet woman she had met in Skyhold had turned into the figure of legends, right before her eyes, _and how different the Inquisition would have become if they had only found her before the Conclave_. It was not too difficult to imagine her, with her proud posture or her calm determination.

But she pushed away that thought; it would be unfair towards Herah to play _what if_ , for she had done her best to get them this far. And all this with a _force_ Cassandra could not help but keep thinking the Maker had sent her to aid them in their cause, _even though Herah always laughed at this notion in her better moods, and harshly dismissed it in her worse_. Still, she wondered.

“Listen to me, Wardens.” The Hero’s voice was clearly audible, as if she stood in front of her instead of half a courtyard away. _And Cassandra really understood why she was dubbed Hero by those who have met her and those who have not alike_. “I have fought in the Fifth Blight, and I have survived to share it with you. I am who the people call a hero, but I am only a soldier in this war eternal, like you are. And I know that you wish to end it, finally, once and for all, before another Archdemon will awaken and plunge this world into chaos and destruction.

“But I implore you, listen to me, fellow Wardens; right now, you only fight each other, and those you have vowed to protect. I cannot see darkspawn around here, can you?” She paused, and opened her arms wide. _A bit dramatic,_ but it seemed to work. Some Wardens were looking around nervously, apparently doubting their mission for the first time.

“You tear the world apart, and do the Archdemon’s work for it. Forces beyond your imagination use you like pawns to further their own cause, and I can promise you: if you don’t stop now, this will end in something worse than another Blight. Enter this madness while you can!”

Her voice boomed over the courtyard, every word that left her lips was audible from beginning to end. _How could the Wardens not listen to the only hero they had left?_

But they did not listen.

The sneering Tevinter _imbécile_ summoned a demon, _as gigantic as the man’s own pride she assumed_ , in the centre of the courtyard, before he turned to flee, the Warden-Commander on his heels. Cassandra caught Herah’s questioning look and nodded; as the Inquisitor and her party chased them, she thrusted her sword into the air.

“Cover the Inquisitor!”

Her soldiers answered her outcry with roars of their own. The noise they made was enough to draw the pride demon’s attention, and the lesser demons which had felt its presence through the weakened Veil strongly enough for them to rip it open completely.

Thrust. Bash. Duck. Sidestep. Parry. Thrust again. Smite. She fell quickly into a routine to combat her foes. Most demons were not the smartest enemies she had fought, but they were persistent, and their numbers were close to overwhelming them. Even though she used all abilities she had at her disposal, both her own and those the Maker had granted her, taking down so many fiends proved to be exhausting.

Somehow, they did enough to keep the waves of the demon horde at bay, enough to land strikes at the giant demon without opening their defences to their foes. With the ground force, and the archers perched on top of the battlements around them, the fight was even easier than she had anticipated.

The pride demon mocked their struggle against it _with that loud, bellowing laughter that had her gnash her teeth to keep away the images of all those men who had thought themselves above her_ , but it eventually followed the fate of its brethren; felled by an arrow lodged into its maw, just as it had opened it to taunt them yet again. It collapsed onto the ground, its limp, massive body taking down other demons in its fall. It was so heavy the earth shook as it hit the ground.

When the tremors did not subside immediately, Cassandra figured it was not only the pride demon they had dealt with. And then, she looked up, and saw the _thing_ causing the quake, _and how did she not recognise its roar?_

This beast was not like any dragon she had seen or slain. During its attack on Haven, she had been tasked to supervise the relief effort, and she had spent most of the time in the tunnels underneath the Chantry, helping the old and the weak. She was the only one who had not seen this monster before, and while it had enraged her at the time, _now she wished she had been spared again_.

Now, however, as the dragon flew over the fortress and hunted the Inquisitor and her party, she saw it fully in its deadly might. Even from this distance, she made out its impressive talons, and its massive, spiked tail, _and dread weighed down on her; how should they fight this?_

Then, it opened its giant maw. Instead of fire, or ice, it spewed death.

A flare of pain snapped her out of her stasis, and her attention back to the ground; a shade had sunk its claws into her shoulder, tearing at it forcefully. While she had watched the wretched beast’s arrival to help Corypheus’ henchman, she had missed the next onslaught of demons pouring through the rift. _A grunt’s mistake, she should know better than this_.

Cassandra lowered her shield arm slightly, as more pain from her injury surged down into her hand. She bit her teeth together, and continued to hack away at her enemies around her.

Another earthquake left the ground shaking, and the whole fortress started to collapse. She could only stare in horror how Hera and her companions fell with the debris down to the ground. _Even a herald could not possibly survive this!_

A green flash lighted up the courtyard, so bright she had to avert her eyes. When she looked back, they were gone. _And Cassandra could not even begin to think about what that would mean for them. And she really, really, did not want to_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're finally at Adamant Fortress aka the actuall quest! And I still have no idea how to write fights! Yeah!  
> But I hope you still enjoyed this chapter, somehow :) 
> 
> And yes, I absolutely headcanon Cassandra would curse in Orlesian! ~~Actually, probably also in Nevarran but I don't have an inkling how that language works because we've never been there!~~
> 
> As always, kudos and kind comments are always appreciated :) !


	12. The Enchantress

Everything was wrong in the Fade. The smells, only her discipline kept her from gagging at this _stench_ ; the creatures, twisted demons, every single one of them; the _world_. And her own magic most of all.

During their first fight _of many, each fight always lured more demons towards them_ , Vivienne had noticed the difference immediately. Instead of weaving her spells from the threads of fabric she pulled from the Fade, she was _surrounded_ by energy here. Her magic responded to her bidding more quickly, and they turned out more intense than she intended them to be, _even though she did not show it to the others; losing control of herself was the first step towards being maleficarum_. However, working magic was also less draining.

It did not take long for her to adapt the changes, _she always had been good at taking advantage of each opportunity she got, because she had to_. As did the Hero, apparently. While she still wielded her sword _with an ease that reminded Vivienne why apprentices were not allowed to practice anything but strictly supervised spells_ , she _of course_ also drew from the raw energy around her to weaken their foes. _Only a fool would not fight those fiends with everything at their disposal, and the Hero might be many things, but she was no fool_.

While they were fighting, her sole focus lay on her actions. Vivienne had learnt _the hard way_ to fully control her footwork long ago, and she knew which gestures served to amplify certain spells. _She knew_.

It was a refreshing exercise, annihilating these mindless, wicked creatures, and she used it to organise her thoughts and clear her mind. Letting her body react to the attacks they threw at her, guiding her magic through her staff to wreak havoc on them… It kept her mind sharp, _and a sharp mind was sorely needed when anything else was so plainly wrong_.

When they were not in combat, but traversing the landscape of the Fade she was more observant, trying to take in the anomalies this place brought forward. _She would make the best of it, as she always did and she did it so well_ , but some things were even beyond her.

Like the _demon_ that had the audacity to steal the late Divine’s image, _another reason these creatures were not to be trusted without exception, something that elf would never understand_. The others were willing to accept its help, so she relented, but she watched, _and she would slay that thing upon its first misstep_.

Their spirit guide was no match for the nightmare they had awoken, though. From the safety of its lair, it constantly spewed out its taunts, _something it thought secret fears but it was an attempt so ridiculous she wanted to laugh; it should have taken notes from those who actually could play the game_. Its booming voice was obnoxious, however, like it was crawling underneath her skin and settled right behind her forehead. Vivienne still tried to ignore most of it, focussing on battling those disgustingly oversized rats and _why in the Void was the Inquisitor talking of spiders_ , but once the critters were taken care of, _she stomped on them like she used to back in the circle when those beasts tried to claw through her sheets and nested in her wardrobe only she had used her feet back then, and now she crushed them with raw magic_ , tuning out its words became increasingly harder _._ Not that she would not be capable of banishing it from her mind, but the closer they got to its lair, the stronger the nightmare became, and at some point _they had to fight this thing_ so she chose to preserve her strength.

“Oh, the mighty Hero of Ferelden! You have sacrificed your lover to gain your title; whom will you sacrifice to keep it?”

 _It was indeed proficient at telling old news, the pitiful thing probably did not get out often. And she would ensure it stayed that way_.

“Nothing you say is worse than reliving it over and over.”

The quietly uttered retort coming from her side surprised her, more than any of the demon’s vile comments could. She understood the Hero was calmer, and more passive than others, but this amount of _self-loathing_ was unexpected.

Their party continued on, battling demons and collecting memories, all of that during the guidance of the pretender spirit, _and only demons played pretend; it would lower its guard eventually to show its true face and then she would be there_. They wandered towards the other rift, their only hope to reach the _real_ world, _but she would get out of here even if that turned out to not work; she had to_. The scenery changed, narrow stairwells and swamp-like fields had opened up into one, vast plain. The demons that loitered here were slain without breaking a sweat, _not that she ever did_ , and, with a motion of her hand, the Inquisitor broke off their formation; all of them went to explore the place, searching for information, _anything_ that would aid them in their endeavour.

She herself was drawn towards the far side of this place. Something called her there, _and she readied herself to fight a demon that had concealed itself_ , but she found no creature.

Instead, she stood before a cemetery, neatly encased with a greenly-black fence. A part of her awaited undead to claw their way out of their resting places, _because that seemed to be the reaction they provoked by all but getting to close to a grave_ , but nothing happened, for the Fade followed different rules _and it was time one of those worked in their favour for a change_. So, she stepped inside.

The graveyard was enormous. Rows and rows of tombstones were planted there, some of them plain, others intricately carved. She did not recognise all the names immediately, and the plainest ones were either blank or crumbling too much for her to decipher what might have been written upon them; but the more elaborately crafted stoned had been tended to carefully.

In its midst stood a mausoleum, even more lavishly decorated than anything else the graveyard displayed so far, with plenty of frescoes and the rarest flowers growing around it, _it was so familiar her stomach dropped but she had to make sure_.

No one else seemed to pay much attention to the graveyard to take notice of her plans, they were too engrossed in their own visions of this place, _and suddenly she wondered what they saw, whom they saw_. Before she would change her mind, she ducked her head and went inside.

The Fade had managed to create the look of a Nevarran-styled tomb, but not the atmosphere, _which did relieve her immeasurably_ ; while the inside did look spectacular, with the fine grey marble walls and the pedestal of polished onyx in the middle of the chamber, the air was neither as cool nor as stale as it should have been.

On top of the pedestal rested two coffins, crafted from grey-and-blue marble infused with silverite; they were massive, but still delicate in its concept and _she knew only one person who had commissioned this set and her blood froze in her veins and her heart set out a beat._ Engraved into the cover plates were words, _names_ , and she hesitantly approached the left sarcophagus.

 _Bastien_ , it read, and her sight began to swim. _This was too close to her heart, too soon, she needed more time and then she could help if she only could get out of here-_

Vivienne steeled herself, sealing away her emotions inside her chest, as she had done so many times before, and angrily wiped away any tears that had fallen onto her face. This was a matter to take care of after she got out of the Fade, _and she would not let this pathetic demon take him from her_. Because she _would_ find a way, even if their current plan failed them.

She turned around and strode outside, without even looking at the other coffin; _she did not need to read it to know it was her name she would find on it_.

The graves grouped around the mausoleum all bore familiar names, _too familiar, she did not want to imagine her comrades buried for good_. Only now, she noticed the additional lines engraved underneath each name, _their fears and she would not read them; if she wanted to know them, there were other way for her to find out_ , and further away, she discovered Hawke’s tombstone, standing next to the Hero’s grave. They stood tucked into a corner behind stones with fading inscriptions of people she had known in Montsimmard. A small voice within her was concerned if she should read their fears, but she swept them aside. _One did not play the game without knowing the players_ , and there was far too much she did not know about those two.

Vivienne strolled towards them, picking up names to her sides with brief flashes of remembrance, _her personal stable boy feared bears, her lady-in-waiting feared her father lost in the war,_ until she stood before the ones she sought out.

Hawke’s stone was broken, multiple times over, and cracked in those parts it was not. But it still stood, almost defiantly, despite its obvious flaws. _Loss_ stood underneath her name; _for someone who had already lost this much…_ She shook her head. Time for condolences could be found later, and it would not bring back her family, even if she tried now.

The Hero’s tombstone was split in the middle, with one half crumbled part to dust and pebbles, while the other side still stood upright; but her name was fading from it while Vivienne looked upon it. _Life_.

She bit her tongue to fight a sudden shudder threatening to overcome her. Though she would never fully understand the extent of suffering the Hero had endured, _and she hoped she never would_ , there was a certain kinship she felt towards her that she could not deny. Maybe, after they had left this dreadful place, she could offer her help.

But right now, there were other things she had to worry about. Especially, since the ground shook from a _roar_ that she needed to find support on the nearest tombstone, and the whole integrity of this place began to shift.

“We need to move, Inquisitor!” Hawke’s voice carried over to her, and she walked swiftly over to the party. Adaar only nodded, the ghostly green light reflecting on her capped horns, which only painted her face even more grim than it already was.

Together, they stalked towards the bright green rift, in the heart of the nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I don't think Viv is scared of rats, but it imagine she is disgusted by them and what they stand for, so while Cass sees maggots, and the PC fights spiders, she has to face rats. ~~Also, there is no way Viv would be afraid of spiders, just because so many others are; it would be too simple.~~
> 
> Also, I really liked the graveyard in the level, so I tried to adjust it as well, to fit the narrative.
> 
> I hoped you liked the latest chapter! If you did, feel free to leave kudos or nice comments behind ;)


	13. The Merc

It was monstrous. The size of a high dragon, this _thing_ towered over them. Saliva dripped from its giant fangs, burning sizzling holes into the ground where they fell. Its massive body rested on long legs, folded underneath it.

It lacked the beauty and grace dragons naturally had. _And a dragon did not mess with his mind_. They put up an honest fight, brutal, of course, but he would not like it any different. The challenge of taking on one of those majestic beasts was _invigorating_. But _this_ … Demons crawled into his head, seeping through his thoughts, _and he hated how he was not sure if it were really his thoughts_.

_This one did not even have the guts to fight them_. Instead, it had conjured an aspect of itself, smaller and quicker, _and damn hard to hit for sure, that coward_.

Bull cleaved through one of the small, skittish underlings, black ichor splattering everywhere. Usually, the blood of his slain enemies would enhance his strength, here it seemed to drain him. He could not wait to get out of _this shithole of a place_.

At least he was not alone in this; Herah also charged at their foes with all her might, leaving maimed and crushed bodies in its wake. A glowing idol, a champion in her own right, _he had camped too often with the dwarf to even have thoughts like this but here they were_. But even she slowly grew tired, her movement was delayed, her swings were weakening, her stance was easy to break, _and he hated that he immediately saw all of this_.

Fighting alongside a vashoth was certainly interesting. It contradicted most of the teaching from his tamassran. Herah was as brave, determined and _committed_ to their mission as those who followed the Qun. If she indeed had followed the Qun, she might have never gotten this far _, and it were thoughts like these that seeded doubt into his mind_.

He had even learnt techniques from her, new swings and ways to parry, even though their weapons of choice were different. With the full armoury of the Inquisition at their disposal, he would choose the most savage looking great axe, and she would take the biggest hammer.

“Your left, Boss,” he yelled. But he would not wait to see if she had heard him. Other demons needed slaying. He jumped up and brought down his axe with all the might and momentum he cut force into it. Its impact split the ground, and left it shaking so that a couple of the small demons lost their footing. _One day, he would hit the earth hard enough so it would spew fire_. His axe was none worse the wear, though.

Nice piece of steel. _Made the ones he used in Seheron look like cheap crap, maybe because they were_. He still would get himself a new one, when they were back at Skyhold; he might even commission Harritt directly, if anyone could forge a weapon after his own heart, it was him. Too much _Fade stuff_ would have seeped into this steel by then, and even Viv could not possibly clean it. He might give it to that elf; _Solas was into that kind of shit, right?_

More small demons crawled towards him, capturing his attention. _Way more than there should be- shit_. He had not heard someone fall, but as he looked around, he saw what was wrong.

Their party was doing well, using everything they had at their disposal to counter what the nightmare threw at them. Somehow, however, this demon had paralysed the other two. Hawke lay on the floor, face frozen into a silent scream, as her hands tore at her chest armour; the Warden stood, albeit barely and hunched over, her face turned towards the ground. Trapped in their own nightmares, there was nothing they would do for the moment.

_This was just what they needed now_. He hurled himself over a rock, cutting through one of the demons with his axe and stomping on another as he landed. Bull did not stop there, to fight off the cluster of them; instead he launched himself towards the Hero, and grabbed her shoulders with both his hands.

She looked weirdly fragile and defenceless in his grip, but he did not have time for that right now. He yanked her up until she stood straight, and shook her.

“Get it together, woman!”

Her eyes cleared, slowly but eventually they returned his gaze just as fierce. She bit her teeth and nodded. _Every soldier needs a kick in the arse at one point; good to see it worked with her, too_. Then, she rushed past him, and with her sword thrusted into the air, she let out a loud cry. All the demons that had begun to claw and gnaw at him while had brought her back to her senses, were thrown back by some force he could not pinpoint. Probably magic, _probably her_.

He shot a quick glance towards Hawke, still lying outstretched on the ground and was obviously tormented by whatever she saw. In what little time he had to make a decision, he turned to join the fray. _She was too far gone for him to shake her back into this madness_.

Besides, the nightmare’s aspect was within his reach. Bull licked his lips, and he tasted his blood on them. Power surged through him, his vision turned red at its fringes. _That was what he had waited for_. And he welcomed the frenzy.

With a loud, bellowing laugh his instincts took over. He sunk his axe into the aspect’s shoulder, and with his next swing he cleaved into its side.

And it flickered.

“It’s energy is low! Let’s finish it!”

Herah’s outcry boosted their moral visibly; bolts and spells flew by, hitting the aspect and draining more power from the demon. He knew she was born to be the leader she was now, and he had not been more proud than now to follow her _. Maybe that one time when they challenged the dragon in the Hinterlands…_ Then she stood next to him, bringing her hammer down on its head.

It flickered one more time, before it dissipated completely. With it, the red faded as well, and hi vision was clear again. He looked around. The lair was littered with the corpses of demons, and the rift illuminated slick patches of ichor and grime on the ground in its sickly green light.

And, he saw the nightmare slowly get onto its feet, stretching out one leg after the other. The aspect had stalled them long enough for it to prepare. Now it was done preparing. _He should have seen this coming_.

Herah threw her hand out towards the rift and ripped it open. Her gaze was still locked onto the massive demon, and pearls of sweat rolled down her temple.

“Move! Now!”

_She did not have to ask him twice_. After the dwarf had vanished in the swirling green rift, he stormed through right after him. Right now, he could not care less for anything but for getting out of here. Bull did not wait to see if the others would follow.

He was not sure, if he actually heard the echoes that followed him through.

“I’ll cover you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I played through this level for the first time, I hated this fight. I hated it. I thought is was worse than the actual final boss fight. So, naturally, I dreaded this chapter the most. ~~Which of course is absolutely not visible in the way I wrote it whoops.~~
> 
> Anyway, I also needed a while to realise that while Hawke and Stroud had accompanied me all the way through this level, they of course had to be incapacitated in this pain of a fight. Seriously?! So I needed to change that!
> 
> Again, if you liked this new chapter, please leave kudos and or comments :)


	14. The Writer

Waiting was the worst. Stumbling out of the Fade, heaving bile into the ruins of the Warden fortress, and nearly crying of pain because at least two ribs had been broken and _were gutting him from inside_. Standing here and staring at the rift was worse, _so much worse_.

To him, it seemed like a new age had come and gone by and still, the vile green gap only sputtered sparks and smoke, not even demons, _and if he was not this unnerved he would try to memorise this line;_ and obviously not _them_. Tiny had emerged from the rift only a few minutes later, not faring much better if he were to believe the gagging sounds the mercenary made; even the Iron Lady herself took longer than usual to recover her composure, as she staggered out of the Fade.

Minutes passed, and nothing else happened. And when no one came behind them, he prayed. Varric was no particularly religious man, average for surface dwarven standards he used to joke, but now, he called out to every deity and pantheon he could think of. As long as the Fade spit them out, spit _her_ out, _Killer had her faults but she must not stay there and why had she not come out yet and Broody would kill him_.

Still nothing. The soldiers around him got increasingly unease, too. Waiting for their leader, _but she was his friend_. He almost wished for the rift to spew out demons again, just to keep him busy, but then again he was weary of fighting, now especially. All he wanted, was a quiet, cosy place where he could polish Bianca, drink a jug of decent ales, _or what humans thought was decent, anyway_ , and catch up with an old friend. _Was that really too much to ask for?_

His fingers twitched nervously around Bianca’s trigger. He had never had trouble with taking watches while they camped, using these hours of solitude to go over bits of dialogue or scenery in his head, _because travelling with these people was inspiring, even though he did not believe in inspiration_. Time flew by.

But waiting, here, not knowing how many got out of there, _if anyone got out, some part of him whispered, or if something else crawled out, and he did not want to think about either of those._ Once he came up with these thoughts, it was difficult to quiet them, however; what if the rift only spewed out their lifeless bodies, _and he nearly got sick again because this could not be_.

In his mind, he already went through his old companions, and what he could tell them, and _Daisy would blame herself, and how could he reach Blondie even though they had not parted on the best of terms and Hawke would not like it but he needed to know too and Andraste preserve him, Broody!_ _Why could he not stop thinking about this?_

And then, finally, the rift sputtered more violently than before; everyone standing inside the ruins of the courtyard turned their attention towards it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his companions staring at it, as did Curly with his jaw squared and _he would have teased him if it was not that serious_.

With a deafening _bang_ Hawke did not step or crawl but _flew_ out of the rift and crashed onto her back, closely followed by Crusher, who landed in a similar fashion.

Relief washed over him, they were back, _she was back, and the place seemed more colourful even though this phrase was too trite even for him but it was true_ , and he barely just registered Crusher sealing the rift as he had seen her do dozens of times before. _Hawke was back_.

Slowly, something else crept into his consciousness; the Hero was still missing. The rift had been sealed. _And if Crusher was not hiding her under her plates…_ The meaning of this dawned on him; all this time he had been aware of the dangers they faced, but that someone actually _died_ … Ever since Crusher had returned to them from the ruins of Haven, he had started to believe in wonders. _His brother had survived and the Hero had deserved that more than Bartrand ever had but still he was in recovery and she was lost in the Fade; this was not how he wanted the story to go_.

He was not the only one to understand that no one would join them from the Fade. Whispers arose from the scattered groups of Wardens and Inquisition soldiers alike.

“What of Warden Solona, your Worship? Was she not with you?”

The Warden who stepped forward was still young, _and not yet that corrupted by the order_ ; the carefully controlled way he asked had his heart clench painfully. _He might have asked the same question, if the Hero was standing here instead of Killer, and he wanted to feel guilty but all he had was relief she was back_.

Crusher acted with more sense than he could have scratched together now, _and that was why she led and he followed._

“The Hero had bought us the time we needed to escape from the Fade. She had chosen to sacrifice herself, to reinstate trust in the Wardens, and to weaken our common enemy.

“However, her death cannot, and will not, cleanse you from your actions. Hereby, I banish all Grey Wardens from Orlais. You should have left by the end of this week,” she added, and turned away. The young Warden deflated visibly, the faint glimmer of hope that shone in his eyes extinguished, as he nodded numbly and walked back towards a group of other members of his orders. Her face, however, was also marked by fate and sorrow, _and why did he came up with lines like these when he could not write them down?_

This was not the woman he shared bawdy jokes with at their camp fire, or even the fearless mercenary he had fought with for the better part of the year; her words were those of a leader, _and he really should have brought a notepad because he wanted that line in his new book_ , and she had never looked so much like the leader they needed as she did right then. A figure, _a symbole_ , for them and their cause.

She exchanged a few words with Hawke, voice tuned lower than before, but he still overheard _Weisshaupt_ and _Wardens_ and _it worried him more than simple words should and he should know that_. He was probably seeing demons where there were none. Despite himself, he breathed out a laugh, because after coming to a place filled with them, he almost got used to their presence, _as much as anyone could get used to demons at least_. When he looked back up, Crusher was deeply engrossed in a conversation with Curly, probably about strategy or such dull things; and even though they were surrounded by a throng of people, he could still see her as she towered above anyone else, _anyone but Tiny and that was why he liked his nickname the best_. Killer was not among them.

Hawke had walked away from the Inquisitor and the people that followed her; now she stood apart from the others, arms crossed before her chest, and face grimaced into a scowl. As soon as she noticed his questioning look, she motioned him with a nod to follow her, and walked even further. Of course, he obliged, _he would follow her everywhere and she knew that_.

“She all but blasted us out of here,” she began as they were out of earshot. “Ripped out a dagger from her belt and sliced open her arm, and erected a barrier between her and us.”

 _Now that was a detail that he would leave out of his book; The Wardens should not lose their latest hero to that, and fiction was more forgiving with the truth than history books ever were_. Judging from Killer’s lowered voice and her constant glares at anyone who threatened to come too close to them, she thought so, too. Despite her contempt and _hatred_ of blood mages.

“So, you’re going to Weisshaupt? Hopefully you don’t plan to join them there,” he chuckled, forcefully airily, to change the topic. “Bad enough that you can’t set foot into all of the Free Marches after- well, you know. But you need to think twice about Orlais!”

She grimaced and snorted, _and it was the most melodic thing he had ever heard because it meant she was alive_.

“No, definitely not,” she spat. “But the First Warden must learn of… this.”

Her nose scrunched up in disgust, _and the last time she did this she had cut open the Arishok from neck to naval and if that was not a great line for his book he would retire his writing career_.

“After that, Fenris and I might… We might go someplace else. With no magic. We’ll see,” she shrugged.

“Promise you write me?” he asked, lifting his fist.

“I promise.” She bumped her own fist gently against his, little finger against little finger, and for the first time since all of this had started, a hint of a smile crept onto her face. _This_ was the Hawke he knew! “You know I could never cut ties with my favourite dwarf!”

And to him, that was the only thing the mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, yes, I do think that the Fade has different rules regarding time and stuff like this, and I do think it is not consitent, either. ~~How convenient!~~
> 
> Also, it's important to me that while Varric is loyal to the Inquisitor and on bff basis, I'm not sure if he would choose them if he had to chose between them and Hawke, regardless of whether you headcanon them as your otp or bffs only.
> 
> As always, leave kudos or kind comments if you feel like it :) !


	15. Epilogue

She drifted aimlessly through the ever-changing landscape. _Had she always been here?_ Every sense of urgency, of purpose, has left her, but she was not content with just staying. Something, _someone_ drew her away. And so she followed the call. She did not know why, she just _knew_.

She explored through hills that were black, or green, or grey, and passed lakes that were gigantic and small, deep and shallow. _Did they change? Did it matter?_ For her, she found no reason, and she needed none. The hills and the lakes just _were_. Instead, she continued her journey through these marvellous lands, taking in its beauty and horrors and _weirdness but why was it weird if she did not know anything else?_ Always searching for something that called to her, beckoning her to follow, _and she was too willing to comply_. She could not name it, or place her need to find it, but she knew she had been looking since before she could remember. And she had never been so close.

Occasionally, something changed, a shift in the air and trembles in the ground. The first time it happened, she grew curious, and strayed from her path. This new energy was stronger, newer than her calling. She only wanted to take a look, she told herself, as wandered towards it, following its throbbing.

The source was different than anything she had seen. It was a gap, a tear in the air, and she could look through it into a different place, _a different world_. She had seen it before, or at least she thought she had, a tower in a lake, built so high it touched the sky. _Or did it grow from the sky to touch the softly rippling waves?_ It was familiar and yet… She knew she did not belong there, she _did not want to be there_.

And then, she noticed she was not alone; others had been lured here as well, towards the tear, the energy, new _newness_. They were eager to get through to the other side, but not in a curious way; they were too eager, too twisted, _too wrong_ ; she was frightened, and she withdrew. After that, she learned to avoid the places that changed, but they were fewer the further she travelled, or disappeared without so much as a crackle in the air.

She wandered on, and the wilderness changed; houses grew from the ground, and sprouted from the walls of a cliff, and from the sides of other houses. Wooden walkways connected them, slung around them to end in the air, with nets hanging from them, some up, some down. This village, _this town, this city?_ also was familiar. Faint echoes of remembrance came to her, of secrets and promises and famine and darkness _and roses_. And, more importantly, whatever, _whoever_ , had lead her this far, was here, too.

She ventured further, sensing the end of her journey was close, and passed the different houses. All were painted in various shades of red, but not twice the same; each was unique, each was different. She emerged from a narrow alleyway and found herself in front of a giant house, large enough for all the other houses to fit inside it; there were windows beyond counting _but she was not sure if new ones grew when she was not looking_ , but only one great door formed as a beast, _a dog, a mabari, though she was not sure what that was_.

And in front of the house, there was a presence of something _, someone, of him,_ and she knew she was done searching. She was drawn into it, so close that it was fully wrapped around her. It just _felt so right_. Images, _memories?_ flickered before her eyes, of locked hands and lips, of eyes that laugh and a voice that smiles, and warmth, and home. This was home, _she_ was home.

They were finally home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's over! I could totally gush on about how I actually managed to finish it within the timelimit I have set for myself, which is nice; but I don't want to bore you with it ;) ~~still, YAY!~~
> 
> I had this chapter finished since forever, ever since I had decided to turn it from an one-shot into a series, and it was really fun to explore a different approach of a character. Also I felt I needed actual closure and some kind of semi-sappy happy end let me ok!
> 
> I hoped you liked it at least a little, and thank you for all of those who took the time to read this little brainchild of mine :) 
> 
> If you liked it a lot, or simply feel like being nice, please leave kudos or kind comments behind :)


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